4.14.16
At A Bar
She sat in a dim bar somewhere in the middle of Europe, probably Germany, sipping straight whiskey. She looked as though she would prefer a mixed drink, but whiskey was her drink of choice. Ever since she was a little girl, and her father had let her lick the fiery drips of his straw, she had craved that liquid burning sensation. It made her feel powerful in some way. She didn't look like she belonged there in her sweater, and perfectly messy, messy bun, yet she seemed to belong in every way. Her confidence oozed out of her as did a magnetic smile anytime the bartender asked her if she needed anything. She'd respond with a slight American accent, lightly squeezing her arm as though she was not entirely comfortable with the language. When no one was there, her face would fall into a neutral position. If you looked closer she even looked sad. Sad in a way that made her wiser and had improved her. A sad where she was no longer sad, but changed her in some way from a past sadness. She was young, no more than 22, 23. There was thoughtfulness in her eyes and her actions. It was in the way she stared into the glass and brought it to her lips as though its contents would give her the answers to all of her unfulfilled questions. In the way she brushed back wispy hairs behind her ear every few minutes pausing to finger her earrings as she glided by.
You had to wonder what she was thinking about.
She had probably been heartbroken. And not just because she was a woman, but because the loss surrounding her seemed familiar. It wasn’t death that caused the sadness, it wasn’t the right kind of sadness. It was a sadness that made you think she had still been okay, functional, but a piece had been torn away. It hadn’t destroyed her as much as she had once thought. She had poured everything she felt into this single loss making it so much greater than it was. It was by no means as great loss as she’d once thought but was most definitely a great love. She knew this even as she knew he had forgotten. Although he had stopped caring for her, and she only ever vaguely crossed his mind, she was sure he was a love of her life, even if not the love.
Sometimes she used to feel the overwhelming urge to punch him in the face. She had loved him, but she wanted that one punch. She never did try to hurt him because she knew that punch would never land. That was over now, though. It had passed. She threw herself into novels and movies in the most original way with the least original players. Plath and Hepburn had starring roles. Even though they were not new, her thoughts were. She felt them very deeply. They made her feel intellectual. They made her feel well versed. And she was. So in an attempt, a successful attempt, she decided to head to Europe to become worldly. And she was.
But you had to wonder who she was and what she was thinking about, such a young woman, alone at a bar.