“Ted. Fucking. Bundy.”
She wipes her mouth,
slaps the bar.
“I don’t need no man.
“What I need is a silk pillowcase, yoga,
“and hourly affirmation.”
She leans over the bar?—
wild, radiant, drunk?—
and points to the bartender.
“Ayo. Tell me I’m fine as fuck.”
He doesn’t argue—“You’re fine as fuck.”
“Damn right I am,” she hums.
“I’m a fuckin’ model. I get paid for it.”
She drops her empty glass down on the bar,
leans closer to me,
and whispers,
“Dare me to kiss the bartender.”
Stage two: The Bartender Rebound
1:43 AM
“Celie, he’s working,” I groan.
“So am I—on myself. Now dare me.”
She’s got that‘I’m about to make out with him without you’ look.
Just as a guy slides up to the bar.
Right next to me.
I grab my martini and bring it to my lips.
Not to sip, but to shield.
I don’t drink alcohol in public.
But I hold it as if it’ll hold the men back,
meant to block theCan-I-buy-you-a-drink?bullshit.
Except this guy’s doing the lean back,
