Yes, a skort.
Not a skirt. Not shorts.
A damn identity crisis you wear on your hips.
I put it on as a joke, then caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—legs long, waist snatched, giving me enough confidence to walk out of my penthouse like I haven’t been a trainwreck for five days.
Even if I spent the entire night letting Celie talk me up while I sank deeper into my own skin. As if I wasn’t bleeding from this morning.
Celie doesn’t know about Raymond.
Celie’ll never know.
No one does. No one will.
Tonight’s not about Raymond, though.
Tonight’s aboutAndrew.
I take a deep breath.
I open the door.
I step inside
into the low amber glow,
where there's brass railings,
dark wood,
exposed brick.
People are everywhere, smiling and sipping—bodies and elbows and knees packed around the bar. Glasses clink. Mouth's laugh. Voices pile on voices. The hum of the city spills in everytime the door swings open. Leon Bridges song,Coming Home,sulks behind it all. The scent of bourbon,
smoke,
orange peel,
and cologne clashes in the room.
My gaze drags down the length of the bar,
the noise of the crowd fading,
until it’s just me,
and the sound of my breathing in my ears,
my eyes tripping over every face it passes,
my chest rising too fast,
air scraping in and out,
heart beating fierce.
Bartender
