the bartender slips on the dress, that one that always gets tips. she picks up her gloves and slams the door. the lock's still broken. she presses the elevator button once, twice, three times. nervous. he knows that she works this shift. pulling on her gloves, she hits the button again.
the bartender walks into the bar and turns on the lights. last night's mess. she starts with the pool table. a regular told her once that a magic eight ball could grant wishes, but she doesn't believe in magic.
the usual suspects trickle in. pour, shake, mix, repeat. they ask her for more drinks as she watches the door.
the bartender tucks the tips in her thigh highs. all of them except the twenties. she folds those bills into tiny squares and slips them through the side of her dress. safekeeping. the clock strikes three and the room clears out. she doesn't say it, but they know it's last call. then the door swings open. she looks him square in the eye and says, "you want a drink?"
dress - gift from ex-boyfriend
thigh highs - traded last christmas morning [bartered for more potato salad at dinner]
custom earrings - f. berkley
toasted head chardonnay