Limp

10:30PM.
Saturday night.
Still single.
She talks me into
going out to the bar.

I didn’t notice him.
(I never do,
it’s part of the problem).
We’re talking about
the left-over french fries
I forgot I had in the fridge.

He inserts himself into
the conversation
(they always do,
that’s the problem).
Asks how I like them.

Slow turn in
my bar stool.
Eyebrow up.
“Limp.”

Next time I turned
around the seat
beside me was empty.

I should never leave the house.
~10/27/14
_____
Places I can almost guarantee you I will not find a date:
Church (because duh)
The Bar (because excuse me I was having a conversation with my friends and I don’t recall you being a part of it and rude).

I’m not saying I’m opposed to being approached at a bar. Of course I am. Isn’t that kind of the point of bars? But there is a right and a wrong way to do it. >Shrugs< (The look on his face, though. Died).

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