two drinks

the bar seems quiet on a thursday night, usually the case. huddles of people sit together on couches, on tiny red couches, some on high, uncomfortable stools which always make you wonder where your legs should be- to let them swing free or to perch them onto the steel rings fixed to the bottom of the tiny round tables.
smoke wafts, a bored bartender gazes at the crowd, then reads the labels of a few bottles. vodka, jack daniels, chivas.
bottles line the shelves, some full, some half empty. damn, or half full? are you sure?
the huddles of people consist of twenty-somethings, men with their ties undone. you catch the ocassional "fuck" and "asshole" and the slapping of backs, followed by boisterous laughter marking male speech, male talk.
girls saunter by, girlish giggles pierce through the air and you notice the acrid smell of stale cigarette, along with their swaying hips.
chunky earrrings, a funky beaded necklace, big eyes, pouty lips, blusher. slightly plunging necklines and jeans to complete the equation. in the toilets stained with puke on weekends they watch themselves, tranfixed by their own nature in the mirrors as they preen. they adjusts strands of hair, widen their eyes and inspect their pores. they saunter back to their places.
they could be nameless with empty faces, objects existing for the purpose of existence.
red liquid with a slice of lemon. an exceptionally thin black straw. a small shot of vodka, a squeeze of the bottle with red and soda gets pumped into the drink.
the black cushioned high stools are indented by the many who have passed through the gates. a bar table near the glass doors was left unoccupied.

***

two drinks, watching wrestling without seeing, and a wall of bottles.