Featured here are the Lampshade Drama.
She had Jet Pilot eyes from her hips on down, so I remember.
I watched her quietly from a dark corner, really looking like a stalker. I suppose acting like one, too, although you could say I have a disposition for being unfavorable.
She wouldn’t look over here, so I did everything I could to keep it that way. I sat perfectly still, staring at her. By now, she had to be uncomfortable from this; not that she’d really made eye contact with me but after so long one starts to feel like they’re being watched.
I was not only watching her, I was imagining her story. I projected my desires onto her and pictured her to be the kind of chick who doesn’t need to be in a place like this bar, someone with a better life and better home outside of here, who just needed to duck in and make sure this scene still isn’t for her every so often. Someone with DVDs of her favorite TV show, popcorn in the cabinets and a tall bottle of wine for one.
Someone unlike me.
‘What am I doing here?’ I thought. ‘I could be working, or better yet, drinking alone at home where these sour losers don’t go, where I am the best and only one, where I am King.’
I looked into my beer and then back at my Queen. A guy sat next to her and they were really chatting it up. Her smile had in it something stern. A seriousness. It told me she is a woman of ease and difficulty at once, simple but tough and likes it rough.
It told me she probably didn’t have a bottle of wine back at the place, or maybe shared an apartment under the pretense of a complicated partnership she’s looking to get out of.
Doesn’t sound like my thing. Or maybe she’s a ladyboy.
No matter.
There is a terrible lack of empathy in the world.
