She’d been coming in for months, worldlessly stuck in her
own head, to sit in the seat nearest the window slowly sipping her drink and
watching the twilight melt. The
peculiar light caught the imperfections in her glass and made it glitter. She loved this.
“Don’t do it,” pleaded the Bloody Mary.
Yet she did. She
took the celery in her hand and brought it to her lips to lick the last bitter
bit from its stem, and walked into the street looking straight ahead, mindless
of both the dog sitting preternaturally vigilant on the sidewalk and the deadly
stream of cars rushing down the street.
She tingled. So close to
death and because of that, alive.
She barely registered the dog knocking her to safety.
It looked lovingly into her eyes, as dogs do. She scratched behind his ears knowing,
regrettably, that she couldn’t return the love in kind.
