He found inspiration in the bottom of his glass. It was nestled between abject self-loathing and a wistfulness he should have abandoned long ago. Life was hardest on the dreamers.
His mouth was sour — booze and regret doing a smoky tango across his tongue — and he wondered if his teeth were always this smooth or if the alcohol had just burned everything else away. She brought him another drink, “on the rocks and served with a splash of sass,” she said, shaking that ass with a wink and a smile. He wanted to believe it was for him, not to fill the tip jar at the end of the counter. It could have been both, he told himself, but that was his dreamer side talking, serving up some bullshit with a side of hope and loneliness.
He drained the glass, he watched her polish the bar. He pulled out a hundred dollar bill and left it for a forty-seven dollar tab. ”Keep the change, Jilly,” he said. What he should have said was “I love you.”
