She was behind the bar, and her long,
trim fingers managed the glasses with
a dignified grace. There were
burns in her forearms from cigarettes
and her hair was choked into a bun.
Some of the hair didn't stay and instead
hung low over her face.
She was pale, but not unattractively so.
She blushed easily and her face was always
slightly tinged with a reddish complexion.
The skin around her eyes crinkled
when she truly laughed, but
more often than not the smile never
reached her eyes. I came to the conclusion
that she was terribly unhappy, and it hurt
me to think of it.
Many of the men in the town
considered her beautiful and made passes
at her with whims and wits to
subjugate her to their intentions. She paid
them no mind, however.
She had a man. He was
stationed in the war, but she wore
his coat in the winter when it
was cold. I came to know her through the bar, and our conversation
grew friendly over the months passed since
I had moved to the town.
Her man was killed from the war that spring and not long after
she left the bar. I heard
she had moved away from the city
and soon I had moved as well.
It is years later now, and I never told her as much, but like
the one woman from a movie
you saw as a kid and dreamed about, I
don't believe I've ever been as in love
as I was with her there; in that terrible city,
behind that terrible bar, smiling without her eyes.