Sketch three

In the winter they crawl and scurry, in the summer they fly and dart.. I loath bugs.  They make me want to wash my hands.  My biggest fear is ending up with one in my mouth.  Any of my orifices would really be a nightmare for me.  Why do they call them earwigs?  They’re not very big but they have a giant, menacing claw device at one end.  It’s like they exist to tow a weapon.

It fucks with me.

She looks at me, offers her hand and asks my name.  I give her my first and after a jagged pause my last.  The way she offers her hand is something I’ve no idea what to do with so I squeeze her fingers..  I am so fucking smooth.  I do clock that her drink is almost empty and manage to point at it and then the bartender.  She nods at him and we’re done with that.  I’ve bought her a drink without having to ask out loud.

I think to ask her name and she says Winnipeg.  I smile and tell her my name again.  She stares at me and says Winnifred.

Peggy or Winny?

I don’t know her name.

The way her lips pull back and forth over her beautiful mouth.  I want her to talk.  I want to watch her face.  I tell her it’s nice to meet her and ask her what she’s doing here.  I want to watch her talk.  She says some shit about being out and about and asks me why I’m here.  I tell her because I live across the street.  She asks me did I run out of booze and I tell her no.  I tell her my excuse for being here is better than hers.  She smiles and tells me not by much.  It’s her chin.  The way she shakes her head to emphasize.  I ask her does she want to move away from the bar.  She tells me no and then asks me what I want.

I tell her I want to watch her talk.

She smiles and tilts.

Her drink comes and I order another for me.

She tells me, “See you there.”

I watch her walk away and I can tell.  Not just what she looks like from the back but the way she walks.

How to be cool waiting by the waitress station for a drink.  I don’t stare at the bartender because he’s in control.  I need a drink and if I stare at him he’ll feel my angst and that’s not any kind of incentive to take care of me.  I’ve ordered it;  It’s in his hands.  I look at my feet and try to think about bugs.  I think about moths and how that dust from their torsos and wings gets on my fingers.

I need to wash my hands.

The Earth thaws and my drink is in front of me.  I look up as he sets it down and he tells me how the waitress could have brought it.

I get into the booth all right.

She touches my hand and asks me what I’d like to watch her talk about.

I see there’s a bug in my drink.  Bigger than a mosquito but smaller than a moth or dragonfly.  A stamen suspended in gin by diaphanous wings.  Shit.  Now I’m confused.

I ask if people call her Wendy.

Drinks for my friends.

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