Gastropubgirl

Sometimes she fails to laugh immediately.  Then feeling the sunken tumble in her swollen belly, she protrudes her ribcage to cough up a choke, which her rolling tongue converts into a breathy “ha ha”.  She makes eyes at him to seal the deal.  He seems convinced.

Now she gets up facing the wrong way, intending to make the longer journey to the bar.   She looks into eyes and into plates of food, watching mouths open, close, then open again to speak or to eat.  She assesses colours of lipsticks, on lips and on glasses, and on the bridged necks of forks.  Clotting greasily. Her arms and legs are loose to graze and chairs and tables take the blind knocks.

Her childish ears prick at teeth catching knives, wooden stools taking their third passenger of the night, bags and purses popping open and closed, texting under tables, knees bumping, fiddlings of fingers and of wedding rings, and the hum of a man on his own in his corner.

A drunk woman is smiling at her.  The pilgrimage unmasked, she looks down again.  She sips something organic. Her tastebuds don’t work the way they should because of the smoking.

illustration by cari vander yacht