She Never Smiles

by Bill Tuomala


Tiny, thin, long curly brown hair, full lips, lush eyebrows. You smile when she brings you drinks, she never smiles, never.


You had this little essay in a local weekly, said essay featured a photo of you from high school. She looked at it, said: You were cute. You chatted and drank, fronted your best front, but the word WERE was ringing, ringing, ringing.


She never smiles, never. There was this Sunday when you could not, would not, sleep. Bike to the bar, what the fuck beats staring into the dark or at the TV. She's working. You sit next to some white chicks, halters and freckles, cowboy hats. Cowboy hats on girls are hot. But your eyes drift behind the bar.


She never smiles, never. It's ten minutes to close and you're ready to slide off home to contemplate Monday. She looks right at you, smiles. Glorious. Not just her mouth but her eyes. Her eyebrows raise, she's smiling, she says: one more?







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