eyes martini-soaked and glowing?—
“Think about me when you’re wiping down the bar tonight, boo,”
she calls out, pointing at him.
He stares back at her,
speechless, mouth hung open,
same as the last bartender.
We burst out of the bar onto Bowery,
the subway an electric hum under our heels.
Gusts of warm air cough up from the vent grate,
the night slaps the sweat off me,
Celie's lipstick’s smudged,
when some girl calls out:
“Damn, that was thirsty.”
She’s leaning against the wall,
smirking behind a cigarette.
Pretty. Bitter.
Celie slows.
I cock a brow.
“Hold up—what’d you say?”
Girl flicks her ash?—
“Just sayin’. Whole bar saw it.”
My steps come to a standstill,
dead center on the sidewalk.
I glance at Celie,
then back at the girl,
and step forward.
“Yo—what’s the matter with your life?”
Celie’s beside me now,
spitting the next line in the song,
None Of Your Business?—
