He wants number six, but daren't ask. He glances, looks even, flicking his eyes towards the stage but the sweet horror of it slaps them back down towards his drink. He stares at the glass as it sweats heavily in his hand, and as the liquid pools around his fingers he begins to tell himself after this drink, he'll go. The music is too hard, the bar is too pricey, the chairs is too sticky.
"What you like? What you like?" the crumpled old Thai spits a hundred possibilities at his feet like watermelon seeds P... P... P...
He begins to shake his head and shuffle away, but she pinches hard at his wrist, "Where you go... TO?" She uses the words to strip and her stare to stab. Where the hell was his going to? Back to dinners for one? Desperate chit chat in lifts with strangers? Clinging to a half smile from the hotel receptionist? Why had he come to Neon lit hell if not for this, for this moment right now? He nods and mumbles for another beer and after a pause for number six too. Yes number six.
submitted at 1:41pm
15 May 2012
Eli Allison's web: