A new bar’s always an interesting experience. Different people, bartenders, bands, music, but the same stories.
I plunked my empty bottle down, and stared at it a moment, then waited for the bartender to find me. She was a hot one. Put a hot one behind the bar on a Friday night, draw in guys by the dozen, and watch them spend everything they have while they watch her.
“Want another, hon?”
I nodded, and she was off to get a full one.
I turned to look out at the crowd. It was a good Friday night, all the tables were full. I saw what I expected around the tables. some were groups of guys, some groups of girls, and some mixed couples. Like always, the guys were hunting girls, the girls formed groups for safety, and the mixed tables were laughing, because they’d already paired off.
That’s why bars have bands and dance floors, so couples can form up. Usually a guy and a girl, but sometimes two guys, or two girls. That’s how Chrissy and I met. In a bar, with a band, and dance floor.
The dance floor was full of couples, some just forming, others having lasted longer, and some nearing the end. The new ones were fun to watch, especially on slow dances, as they got that first full body contact. It either worked, or it didn’t. If it worked, they got closer. If not, they barely touched. The couples nearly done looked around as they danced, with that “I remember when this was fun” look.
“Here alone?” The bartender put the next bottle down.
“Yeah.”
“Just break up?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me know when you want the next one.”
“And the one after that.”
She had great eyes, lots of cleavage, and hips. God, what hips! The kind you want to put your hands on. Of course, she knew it, and she showed ‘em off well. The guy next to me took a big chug from his glass, gave me an evil smile, and whispered, “God, I’d love to bang that!”
“Who wouldn’t,” I thought, “Now that Chrissy’s gone.” We’d shared the same apartment for years, but not any more. The thrill, the excitement, was gone, and had been for months. We’d met at a bar, on a dance floor, and we’d liked what we felt on that floor. That first slow number, every curve of her molded right into me, like two puzzle pieces did.
But the physical parts were the only parts that fit together. In every other way, we fit together like housewives and cockroaches. Gods, the fights we had! Of course they always ended with us naked, trashing the bed sheets again. “Hi, honey! Let’s have another fight, so we can fuck!” Yeah, that’s what everything turned into.
So, we broke up. It was for the best.
I wasn’t in the bar to find a new girl. No, I was there to understand I might find another Chrissy, and have hot sex with her for a year or three, and then have to find another bar, and another Chrissy. And it would never end.
I was drinking to think about how to find a woman. A real woman. A friend, someone to trust, to talk with, and spend time with. Someone who’d be there when you needed ‘em. Not just another body I could bang.
But I had to admit I missed banging Chrissy. Damn, she’d been hot, and so had the sex. But I’d get over it.
I looked at the guy next to me as he stared at the bartender’s ass. “Dude, no drooling on the bar.”
“God,” the guy mumbled, “Give me one night with a number like that. That’s all I want. One night.”
I spent the rest of the night watching hot women turn guys like him stupid, and wondering if I’d ever find who I was looking for, and where I’d find her, because I knew I’d never find her in a bar with a dance floor, and a band.
675 words
@LurchMunster
This is my entry for Year 2, Week 14 (Week 2.14) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. Please, go read the other stories in the challenge.
My Soul's Tears 