The Date

The band was playing something

soft in the background,

drink glasses clinked over

murmured conversations.

The lights were low,

pink and blue neon,

reflecting in the fun-house

mirror over the oak bar.

She sat on her stool,

crowded by a man

more interested in talking

than listening.

She’d dressed up for this date,

Hair, make-up, and the expensive

perfume.  She was nervous the night

before, like a teenager.

She had no reason to be.

She thought he’d be nice,

but he was crude, rough and

dim as a gas lamp.

His profile was deceiving

and she should have known

from spelling errors and syntax,

but he was handsome. So, a chance.

He didn’t compliment her,

he only said she looked, “Tasty”

and that they should probably

just skip dinner in favor of heavy drinks.

He said something about “Those people,

and how they all think, they’re dirty, and

evil and they should be segregated”.

She cringed and brushed her hair back.

His shirt collar was open, a small

mustard stain on it kept

demanding her attention. She figured

this was his “nice” shirt, for funerals and dates.

He said she had nice legs and he put his

hand on her knee. She sat up straight

and brushed his hand away. He acted offended.

She wanted to vomit.

The band stopped playing their soft song.

People clapped lightly.

She stood from the stool.

She said she was done.

“Bitch”, he called after her

as she walked away.

She knew she had done the right thing.

She was glad to go.

She was lucky to get away.

The rest of the patrons were

stuck listening to her date,

curse her and call her all sorts of things.

He was asked to leave,

so he yelled at the bartender,

he yelled at the bouncer,

he called everyone in the bar, “Fags”.

He stormed out.

Thinking he was right.

Thinking he did the right thing.

The hell with that place and her.