Shamelessly pretentious and inspired by the wonderfully filthy work of Charles Bukowski, this is an extremely short bit of something that resulted from me just wanting to write with a version of his voice.
There were maybe six others in the bar. I sat in a booth at the back with a really terrible scotch and waited. That’s all I came for, just to wait. I treated the glass in my hand like an excuse to do nothing and hope that my day would just occupy itself, tucking itself in neatly with all the rest I had burned away in the dim light. It was going well so far.
A lot of people need a reason to drink, but my reason was the act itself. Liquor is a catalyst, it makes things happen. Not that I had faith in a cheap bottle of whiskey or anything, not at all. Whatever it was going to set up wouldn’t be worth the price of admission. Still, two mouthfuls and I had gotten used to the taste.
There was one girl in the place; pretty, with blonde hair pulled back too tight into a ponytail. The hum of the music was an annoyance, it distracted me from eyeing her properly. She was with a man who stomped his leg rapidly with either excitement or nerves, neither of which I was sure were justified. His hands painted ten messy pictures as he told her about his lunch or something, and she just looked right past him. She was a wall that he regaled with false stories of bravado and fabricated charisma. He had a routine all lined up and it didn’t matter which beats hit, he’d follow through. The girl pursed her lips after every sip she took, auburn clinging to those pillows from a bottle of house red. He never even touched his, it got in the way of his speech.