2005-09-21 || 10:47 p.m.

|| happy hour solo mission: completed. ||

i sat down at a bar alone. i've never done that before. there have been times when i've been at a bar alone, but it's always been that i was meeting someone, and i wrapped myself up in the wait like it was a long black cloak. i'm checking my watch and i'm facing the door. i'm biding my time with my drink and i'm hiding under all that black. but today i sat in the very middle of the bar and i ordered my whiskey and i got out my book. i couldn't read though; my mind kept skipping.
i wasn't even nervous when i walked in. i hesitated for a second at a table but my legs marched me up to the bar and sat me down. a man two seats down kept looking at me. he opened his chest to me and i learned on a talk show that that is body language asking for interaction. i pretended to read and watched him out of the corner of my eye and draped myself in a new cloak: i've had a really bad day. i cried at the reception desk and let a call ring three times, which is a long time when you're sitting right next to the phone, before i could get my voice back together to answer in the proper fashion. my contact lenses have gone foggy and i can't read the print of my book but i'm going to pretend because i want to sit here for a bit and think of myself as some tough broad who drinks whiskey by herself fifty feet from her bus stop. i pay for my drinks in crumpled bills and throw the stem of my maraschino cherry in the ashtray like i'm some kind of bad ass.

tough broads cry up and down the street every day about their emaciating cats. they let their mascara run and flap their arms under their long black cloaks.

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