Love, Lose, And Repeat

Pick Me Up Lines

    I appetize on olives. I dine on cheap mugs of whatever the barman has on tap. My teeth snap nuts to soak up more, so I can go drink more. I can hear ice crack when whiskey is poured over it. I define brands of Brandy by smell. My taste buds gorge and sweat when they wait for tequila to be poured. My sips are swigs, my muscles relax, and  after shot five, six, seven--I can breath again.
    I dressed in the soft velvet, held hugging the wallpaper in my empty closet. Wrinkled only a little, smelling only a little like vomit, it still fits. My eyes are cracked with red lines so I drop in eye drops before I go out. I pre-game with the warm whiskey Ivan left in the ice box last month and didn't take with him. Just one shot before I hit the door. It fills me up and my red heels carry me to the taxi at my doorstep.
    "Can I buy that beautiful blonde a drink" Some pool player, polo shirt wearer, toothpaste ad advertiser, is leaning next to me.
    "You can't afford me, honey." I say with red lipstick smile.
    He ignores me through the music and the tube-top, double-d, twenty-two-year-old giggles over an order for another Malibu breeze. They go off together, talking between her hairflips, and dirty dancing under strobe lights.
    The bartender knows my name, knows my order. He knows not to ask if I want ice. He knows I need the extra olive and the shot of "whatever's strongest" on the side. He calls me Phillis and comps a shot or two--I tip enough. He tells me, "Phillis your putting my kids through college." And I laugh and say its the least I can do.
    I see myself in the mirror behind my bartender. He is rushing around making Malibu Breezes and I catch a glimpse of myself. My red nails inch over the lines on my forehead. I see my dress, its too tight and still doesn't cover the thirty pounds I've gained since Ivan moved out. I see wrinkles crowding my forehead, like they are packed in nosebleed seats just trying to get comfortable.
    I get a refill fast before I raise my glass to ask.
     "Wendall, you really know how to show a lady a good time." I tell him before swallowing rum all in one go. My hair is fading. It wasn't blonde, it was white--highlighted white.
    "I'll show you a good time." A man wiggles his arm around me, the sting of warm beer and cigars suffocates my throat. He is wearing a leather necktie, checked t-shirt, and ripped white jeans. "You need a refresher--a pick me up?" He asks squeezing my head into his hot chest. I pull away and he wobbles over like a teetering top. He takes a beer from the bartender and went back to a beer pong by the back.
    "How's your daughter, Wendall?" I ask shaking away a shiver. He refreshes my cup and leans over in from of me.
    "She's good. Likes it in Montana a little too much. The wife wants her back here, empty nest, you know?"
    I rattle my empty glass and he tops me off and now my sight is going.
    "Yeah. Whiskey Sour when you get a chance, Wendall."
    A man with a lit cigarette and a lie ready on his lips came up behind me. His warm breath hit on my neck.
    "I'll buy you that whiskey sour, if you promise to be sweet."
    "And who are you?" I say with a laugh, swinging around my barstool to see him. Wendall leaves to check in on the other orderers.
    "Don't you recognize me? I'm only in town for the night. I'm the drummer from Downtown Derby."
    "I've heard of that band..." I trail off and see us both in the mirror over the bar. If I had a son, he would be about his age. His skin is tight, his hair is greased back and slick black.
    "So then let me buy you a drink. Then maybe, I'll sign you an autograph.
    "I guess just one would be all right, since you are only here--for the night."
    "Two whiskey sours." He raises two fingers to Wendall, who bowed his bald head in response.
    Whiskey Sour. That is Ivan's favorite. Iceless, extra sour. I got the bar in the divorce. Good thing too, or I think I would have dehydrated.