In a cloud of humid, summer smoke
at a local bar, a brunette in a little black skirt
chatted and laughed hard among a group
of friends or co-workers while she nursed
the last ounce of a draft
from a clear plastic cup.
That skirt showed off her thick, muscular legs.
All over her calves and up her thighs were little cuts,
patches of red skin, and bruises.
Made up in dark eye shadow and lipstick,
the dame stood out among the workers
in mechanic uniforms and fast food smocks.
I made my way toward the group
and slid in beside her.
‘Can I get you another beer?’
The woman gave me a quick once over,
her expression quickly turned to a half frown.
‘How do you know I’m single?’
she said. ‘I might be married to him.’
She then pointed to a guy in her group,
twice her age and in a ***** flannel shirt.
‘I’ll take my chances.’
She stared at me for a few seconds,
the gears cranking behind her brown eyes,
deciding if a fat, bald stranger was worth her evening.
‘If you’re buying, I’m drinking,’ she said
and then laughed from the gut.
‘So, what do you do?’ she said.
‘I’m a writer.’
‘Oh yeah? What have you written?’
‘Nothing you’ve read,’ I said.
I’ve always despised explaining my work.
‘You any good at writing?’
‘I’m excellent, but listen,
what’s with those bruises on your legs?
Are you okay?’
‘I work in a warehouse,’ she said.
‘Gotcha.’
‘You know the best thing about that job?’
‘What’s that?’ I said.
‘I don't take it home with me.
All those doctors and executives get ****** up
on drugs to sleep and work. All I do is work
and then I take my *** home.’
I took sip of whiskey and ginger ale,
and then decided to share some truth.
‘Everyone takes their work home, baby.’
‘I’m not your baby.’
‘Some of us keep our hands clean
and pollute our minds until madness takes us.
Others destroy their bodies to stay sane.
Either way, we take it home,
we live our jobs at night, on weekends,
at church, even on vacation.’
Not surprisingly, that beautiful woman
did not come home with me
or share her number.