03.15.02 - 11:29 pm
she sat down next to me and put her arm around my shoulder and told me about nogales in springtime with her mother.
"i handed her my phone and she called my professor and told him there was a family emergency,"
i ordered another drink. tried making eye-contact with the boy across the bar.
"right. if you call my mother drunk off tequila a family emergency."
and i dont know why people tell me things. why my face has something in it that makes them want to talk. why it's okay to tell stories about mexico and boozing. the college kids without adequate cab fare who fucked in the back seat while the cab driver watched, how you lived off ramen for over a year, how people ask if youre a lesbian, how sometimes you wish you were, how you like my hair, my pants, my ass, how you'd like to fuck me senseless in the third stall to the right, how you knew this guy who followed the grateful dead for 10 years of his life, how you drink one for jerry, hold your glass up to the air, "here's for you, buddy," you say, as if you ever really knew him, as if i really even care, as if the moon won't set tomorrow and this bar- these people-won't disappear, like shadows, in the restless light of day.
