lonely
. . . and my bones said "lonely, lonely lonely." . . .there was nothing i could do about that.  . . .and my brain berrated me for my irrationality.   i loved and . . . . . . there was nothing i could do about that. . . . and my bones said "lonely, lonely, lonely" and my brain said "silly, silly, silly."
"Yes, was there something i can do for you?" "no."
I stood at the counter wiping lips off of wine glasses with a white cloth. It was automatic. Watching the single people mill and couples swoon was also automatic and the sweet empty place in my head was strange.
Points of light hung in this space, radiating spheres of light, spaced so each glowed autonomously. Then, then smooth trees grew straight, out perpendicularly from the earth, materializing beneath them.
"Sir?" "Vodka tonic and a metropolitan for the lady."
Mixing drinks is automatic. So is taking orders. I have been taking orders and making drinks so long that i have forgotten how to relate. Speaking to people is strange and empty and sweet.
Among the trees a little fire sprinkles an earthly light on a small naked woman with wild hair.   Lying on her side, hair scatterd on the ground around her head, she gazes on into the fire.  The dirt on her face suits her like earthen blush and she glows in the hearth light.
The woman at the end of the bar looked like my mother and laughed the same way. A man engaged her in conversation but she sat alone, interacting with people coming and going and getting their drinks.
"Vodka tonic and the metropolitan. That will be, uhm, eight fifty." "Thanks keep the change."
I picked up the ten and the single with out looking down, "I'll be right with you", deposited eight fifty in the register and the remainder in a tumbler collecting tips.
She made me uncomfortable, the woman at the end of the bar, with the way she called me over, raising her empty glass and an eyebrow, and smiling. She disgusted me a little too. Each movement had the delicate limpness of a creeping drunk. She flailed a bit, touched her collar bone and leaned forward each time she laughed, and looked at me as if we were the audience watching the secret comedy of this pretentious little bar.
"What can I get you?" "A pack of cigarettes, Camel Lights." "Three Fifty. Anything else?"
"A light." I struck a match and leaned overt he bar with the flame.