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November 07, 2003
Bar maids
Pulled together like some kindergarten Christmas project, I've found a place to wait. Some lonely bar, maybe in a hotel, where people walk past but not in. Here is where I sit watching in my Sunday finest. An awkward but well intentioned creation of eyeliner and lip gloss, sparkle and spackle. My hair smells like soap and tastes like salt, my neck and wrists smell of Calvin Kline. I sit at the bar, fidget with the peanuts, nervously cross and uncross my legs and try not to bite my nails. The smoke from my neglected cigarette gets into my eyes, eliciting reactionary tears. Tears that are mirrored by the drink that sits, ice melting, a pool of water collecting at its base. I remain collected, clearing my throat and trying hard to give off an air of unwavering self-possession. I try not to look hopeful, like I'm waiting for someone to come in for me. Like if no one ever does it won't be a wasted trip.
But I do wonder where he is. Sometimes. That wondrous mixture of all the men who I've wished I could love, or thought I did. The one who couldn't possibly exist. The one who might someday sit down next to me in that bar, or get me to leave it. I wonder where she is, too - the girl who wouldn't be afraid to leave with him if he came along.
I don't mind the wait really. I am silently hopeful that it won't be entirely fruitless. But then again, I can't get too upset about anything. I'm only a metaphor.
Posted by kati at November 7, 2003 11:15 PM