Barfly

 

I am looking to forget myself this evening, thought the barfly to herself. Stating her intentions relaxed her a little, her piss flowed into the bowl in gush that was slow at first but picked up momentum. The toilet door in front of her had poetry written in lipstick, and spits of drunken jibber from lady writers feeling brave fingering their beers and chardonnays. ‘AARON IS A GOD WITH A DONKEY DICK,’ said some wiggly capital letters in a mahogany hue. He sounded nice, thought the barfly as she wiped, looked at the paper out of some strange subconscious gesture that had started in potty training and never left her. She flushed. I am a human, I have needs, I need not feel guilty.

She skulked over to the bar. She ordered another house shiraz. The male beside her was tall, of a manly build. He had blondey-reddy hair and it was tied up. It was hard to tell under the dusty bar lights whether it was actually red or blond and I suppose it didn’t really matter. His eyebrows and eyelashes were fair, they offered no distinction to his eyes which were fair too, kind of the colour of glass. Everything on his face seemed to blend into each other. She couldn’t imagine having sex with him and enjoying it. She tried to picture it as he stood beside her rolling a cigarette and talking to his friend. He seemed like a loud cumer. A real hard-thruster.  One who just came and didn’t wait  until the lady was anywhere near being close before grunting several times and allowing the whole weight of his big body to collapse on top of her.

Do you have a filter? He asked her suddenly.

No. She said abruptly. But I have everything else in this bag! See. She showed him inside her bag. There was a lot of stuff in her bag.

He peered inside her bag quickly and appeared unimpressed. He looked around to see who else he could ask for a filter and walked away. It was the closest thing to attention from a man she had received in months. She got a little bit of a buzz.

She pretended to watch the soccer on the screen above the little stage that was due to have a musician on it who sounded like everyone else any minute. She glanced over to her right quickly at the group of males she had pinched a stool from earlier. The one who had given her the stool looked at her quickly. She went back to pretending to watch the soccer.

They were townies the group of males, their haircuts gave them away. Haircuts fit for the office. They were young, probably 24, no doubt here for Bluesfest. One week of their four a year blown just like that. She pictured having sex with the one who gave her the stool. He seemed very sweet, polite. He was probably feeling fresh and brand new, she thought, fresh with energy and excitement before his impending big weekend. This was his first night in town, she expected, he was eager to mingle. He’d be more of a love maker. Probably fall in love with her in the heat of it all because she was of this place, lived in this place, was slightly strange and had made a life in this place that was worth one week of his four a year. He’d probably ask for her Facebook name the next morning, leave early because he had to make the festival. And when she’d tell him that she didn’t have one he would leave even more convinced she was crazy. He’d probably be convinced from the night spent with her that all Byron Bay chicks were crazy.

Do you want to come have a puff? Said the reddy blond guy. He had returned. He held up the neatly rolled cigarette pinched between his fingers.

Yes, I would like a puff, she said.

Cool, he said. He said something quickly to his friend. She followed them outside.

I usually have cigarettes, but I forgot them tonight. I have a knife in my bag though, she said.

He laughed. They stood next to a bin. He lit the cigarette. She pulled out the knife.

Wow, shit. That is a real knife! He said.

 Yep, she said. He gave her the cigarette and started talking to his friend. She wrapped the knife up and put it back in her bag. She drew on the cigarette and blew the smoke down the street. He allowed her two draws before he reached for it back, still talking to his friend. She felt annoyed. What kind of decent human being doesn’t feel the need to ask why you have a knife in your handbag if you pull one out? Not that this was a regular thing she did for the sake of starting conversation. She thanked Mr Hard Thrusts for the puff and went back inside.

Office Boy approached her. What’s your name? He asked. After spending five minutes in the company of Mr Hard Thrusts it felt like an interrogation. His shirt was ironed, maybe he was an accountant. Her Dad wanted her to end up with an accountant. He told her she should leave Byron Bay, find an accountant, and then they could move back together later. She had asked him what on earth she would do with an accountant. He said find stability. She didn’t bother arguing with him, what was the point?

Would you like to come and join us? Said Office Boy.

Nah, she said.

She sculled the rest of her shiraz then her and the knife caught a cab home together.

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