Sings adverts for the Weetabix

I’m curious about that case of cigars. I’ve never seen anybody buy a cigar out of there. I would wear one of those T-shirts. Maybe I should get a cigar? But I bet they’re stale. And I don’t like cigars, all that much-heartburn.

At bar, crowded, guy leaning over Jager-dispenser to hit on the waitress, past him, moment of decision: woman leaning over the bar elbows on, man on edge of bar. Can’t fit through completely: turn crotch toward woman. Etiquette involved. More sideways, shows acknowledgement of femininity, lacking vulgarity.

Outside. Options. Table nearest the window, back to the window. This place would be great if not for the people.

-Hey

-Hey

Throw cigarettes down, still wait, wait till waitress comes….

-What’ll you have, hon?

Cute waitress said hon. But it seemed more affectionate. I’m sure she calls everyone hon, but there seemed to be a real feeling to it that time. Maybe not. Maybe…

-Can I get my sheet?
-Isaac, right?

She remembered my name. We will be married on the hills of Ireland, I will plant her belly full of dandelions.
-And you?

Orders something. Not sure. Had it before. Don’t remember. Fuck. Douche with the mowhawk. Dumpy fucking premie baby always with three hot women cause he has fucking ridiculous hair and alcohol problem and sagging pants and no dignity and probably no fucking clue about anything beyond his own cock.

Who picked Metallica? Always. Always.

-She…is really cute.

Inside, turn. Peer through window like orphan into Christmas house, see lit tree and trimmed turkey carcass. The glow. Quick: three people, two ladies, one gent, gents got himself a backwards cap, a mug, one of those cartoonish clown mugs that only hold swill, girl to the left has too much shit on, too much pretty on her. Her?

-Her?
The other one, little more plain, less attempting to be….
-Yeah, that one.
Other one better sale, obviously didn’t care enough to fix her hair all that much, wearing glasses, shows she isn’t vain enough to wear contacts only.
Shit.

-Know what you want?
Don’t fuck this up. The future of your children rests in your answer. Spent all valuable menu contemplation time on sizing up that woman over there; she is drinking a fucking frozen margarita, and any girl that could order a fucking slushy in a pub and sit and drink it, in full view of God and town, with a man with a baseball cap backwards, is not where you need to rest your genetic eggs. Meanwhile this poor girl is waiting on you to say something, anything. Quick, quick, make it casual, make it seem like…

-Can I just….
Just. Good? Wait. Maybe kinda assholish. Just. Wanted casual, but may have diminished the amount of her work in retrieving it. Just. Can I just get…
-get a pint…
Pick something. You are stretching this out way too long. Now she knows that just was just fucking time fill. GOD. TICK TOCK EACH SECOND IS AN ABORTION.
-If today was your last day…
What is this? Peer down. Need something surly but not trite like Guinness.
-and tomorrow was too late
Rogue sounds like I’m trying to be manly. But I like it. Goddamn it. Bass. Nobody sounds fake manly ordering Bass. It’s named after a fucking fish.
-Could you say goodbye to yesterday?
What the fuck is this shit? Who picked this? What is this? Why is this making me so angry?
-Can I get a pint of Rogue?
-Rogue? Sure, hon.
I'm going to die alone.