augury doggerel

Thursday, August 01, 2002

Walks into a bar

My palm itches like some old wives' tale come true, something about luck or money. I rub my head, still rough from a shave, and crack my neck, but the hand still itches.

And I smell other men in this place. You almost never smell women until you're too close to say no, but other men can go unwashed in old clothes for days and not suspect or care that they smell like a smear of skunk on the highway. I can't snort them out or smoke them out.

A girl four feet tall goes up and asks the barman for an iced tea for her mother. The barman is six feet sweating and a half of keg-rustler, but not one of the stinking ones. He leans to her just enough to make proper eye contact, and he smiles cordially, not sweetly or condescendingly, and takes her order. And for just two seconds, I have that burst of something that the cheap movies and ads try to filch from you but you keep to yourself.


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