I sit down at the bar and light up an English Oval.

When you cough and spit at the smoke,

I suspect I'm not going to get laid.

"Three packs a day," I fib.

"I also drink 26 cups of coffee before work

and eat white sugar straight from the box."

I want to go home right then,

but you are looking awfully cute sipping on that

caffeine-free Diet 7-Up

in your jogging shorts and Nike sneakers,

so I order a Stoly martini straight up and admit

I lied 

about the sugar.

You laugh and point out a couple eating dinner.

He is wearing a bad toupee and a Walkman.

She is reading Cosmo.

We joke about the things people do

to push each other away as you

eye the door.

   "I haven't been laid in five years," I whine,

blowing a smoke ring when you tug at your muscle T-shirt,

complaining you need sleep.

It is 7 p.m.

   "I haven't been laid in FIFTEEN years,"

I wail to your disappearing Nike sneakers.

   "Nice girl," gushes the bartender later,

   "but I couldn't make any time with her."

I exhale smoke out my nose dramatically

and gulp down a couple packets of white sugar.

   "Me neither,"

   I snort.
 
 

(first published in Anything That  moves, 1993)

©Chocolate Waters