Monday August 14, 2017
From a greeting card
You take a blonde into a washroom stall and kiss her harder than you’ve ever kissed. You slur your “maybes” and “okay” and you take a taxi home, alone. You wonder how all these phone numbers got in your speed dial and who is Kendra and who is Sara and who is Tandy. You wonder about the Hardy Boys. Mike used to read to you when you were falling asleep. You liked that. You don’t read much anymore, other than the Internet. Is that still considered reading?
Thursday February 27, 2014 at Sambuca Grill
I go down, I slip down to the washroom of the bar so nobody notices me. So nobody realizes I’ve gone. I need some alone time and I can’t have that here with these people drinking these cocktails eating these dirty fingered bar nuts. I bring with me my flirty lipstick. I leave my phone in my purse hung over my chair. I don’t tell anyone to watch my stuff cause I don’t want anyone watching my anything. I go down, I slip down to the washroom of the bar so I can look at myself in the mirror and give my head a break. I need to see myself sometimes when I’m in a crowded place. When I’m so busy smiling and listening with my whole face that I don’t remember what I look like. I don’t remember what my soul looks like. I’ve got my flirty lipstick. I can hear the bass, I can hear the shriek laughter, the bartender breaking a second glass. I escape. I escape it all. I get into the washroom. The washroom of the bar and I want to stay here for a bit. I finally understand why they call it a ‘stall’.