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Bar Fly

She was a beauty back in her day. She's still a sweet young thing in her mind but her varicose veins tell another story. You can practically hear the bone crumbling when she swivels her hips as she makes her way to your seat at the bar. Calls you "hon" or "sugar" as she tries to con you into buying her a drink. She hasn't willingly paid for one in 30 years. She'll tell you this could be your lucky night, provided you're blind or just plain desperate. 

 She tells herself, in a voice you're not supposed to hear, that she's going to get her life together...tomorrow. One last night on the town...the same night in the same town in the same bars she's been haunting for a generation. She's a ghost who doesn't realize she's dead. 

 She probably can't remember what color her hair used to be. Somewhere, under the layers of drug store dye, its just white. Her skin looks like a bad paint job on an old oak tree. Her voice, gravelly from a few Pall Malls too many, travels on breath that gives away her diet of cheap gin and fried food. Her clothes may have been in style once but even then, they were cheap knock offs. 

 She used to be the girl of somebody's dreams. Those dreams ended when she made an name for herself. "Easy". She wasn't too worried. Someone better would come along and save her. She's still waiting...but closing time is ticking ever closer.  

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