misstree enabler
ohsospecial friend
that bitch that ignores me
the sweetheart that asks me what kind of vodka i'd like today, and then pours me lots of it.
eye candy behind the bar is good and all, but there's so very much more to this lurvely and honored position.
bad bartenders make me an angry drunk unlikely to return to an establishment.
good bartenders make my slishysloshy heart quite fond.
Death of a Rose i'd like a holy bartender please.

oh and a bartini, beaten and slurred.
stork daddy one of our close friend's older brother, who was also our friend, had killed himself a week ago. my girlfriend was a bartender at a local bar that was usually near empty on a wednesday. we went there, a group of 10 of us, 3 boys and 7 girls who had all been friends since high school. our friend was with his family. the night, like most drinking nights, started off crisp and almost shocking - the emptiness of the barstools and the entrance's threshold where people usually were smoking made us feel naked somehow. there was no background noise to depend on. but like most drinking nights it warmed and blurred slowly. we laughed about old jokes which now were retold inaccurately or with mixed up characters. and in many ways, we all did feel interchangeable. as our sadness tinged with the comfort of each other's presence, we all started to touch each other more, and we broke into small groups of stories. my girlfriend and i had been going out for a while and so we exchanged light kisses that became more unmodest (a slight pulling on her bottom lip) as the night progressed. but our friends didn't distance themselves as they normally did. though usually it was too honest to kiss like that in front of others, too exclusive to include others at all, it was somehow tonight not a spectacle but a core. my girlfriend was half-maltese and half-irish. she was tall, long-legged and pale like her mother, which was interesting because her father and sister were short and dark. not that it's important who her family was - only how she looked. she had a roman nose, with high arched nostrils, that she hated and that i found somehow elegant and ancient, and thought roman or carthaginian though i had no clear knowledge on which to base this.

it was usual on a night of drinking for our friends to have strange flirtations, in which we would, in sly defiance of recognized relationships or crushes, flirt with the idea of imagined pairings. there was something about the drunkeness and the desire it creates to touch and extend your good feelings to everything, that made us freely exhibit those desires that we decided inappropriate by the light of day. and something about the grief we felt that day, or the warmth in our eyes and stomachs made it so much more intense than usual. on any given drunken night i had imagined all of them, naked, the way one' would look whose legs at their juncture shaped a strange diamond of vacant space, or the round breasts of another that often slowly brushed her arms. i had even imagined, in what would be tender were it not a selfish fantasy of powerful existence, what my children would look like with the girl with such green eyes. they were of course people, more familiar than this, but in moments they became strange again to me, and i to them.

i walked away from my girlfriend from group to group, and one brushed my cheek with her hand and was surprised how smooth it was

to be cont.
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