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.
I’m liking it. Keep it going. I enjoy your style.