She Comes In Colorsby Bill Tuomala
Wearing that tiny skirt, with that glitter around her eyes, pointing you to best beer prices through the night. See how she shuts off the tap with her chin, her hands full with drinks.
One night, a Sunday, you were done writing. Stopped in, sat down. She smiled, said:
Up all night
Sleep all day?
The off-duty day cook is talking about that car that runs on water. Some scientist invented it in the seventies and Ford assassinated him over it. Therefore the reason you see hybrid cars now is because of the Chinese and/or the fucking Illuminati. He tries to give her a gift. He's stricken, obviously. A mashed-up bite-size Snickers and a twenty-ounce Cherry Coke. She turns the gifts down; then smirks to you, an inside joke. You hate yourself.
But you're staring, you're stuck. She fills the jukebox. Dobie Gray sings gimme the beat boys and free my soul. She mouths along the words, staring you down, bringing you a drink. You're trapped. Damned disposable income. Dammit.