The Girl Behind Bars
You know her. You saw her the second you walked through the cloud of smoke. The one source of light from an otherwise dimly lit space. She’s bending backwards and forwards, jumping up and down just to make everyone happy. She’s caught you eye and sadly raised the bar for every other female in the room. She makes ‘water flow like wine’ in cascading waterfalls of yellows, greens and blues. She quickly tames red bulls, takes / gives shots from every direction, climbs mountains of ice and fends off badly timed pick up lines. But yet, she’s in slow motion. She’s the epitome of style and grace amidst a world of chaos.
She sees you from across the room. It’s not eye contact per se, but she’s acknowledged your existence with a faint smile. Sometimes, that’s all you need to validate the trip around the alcohol infused weekend meat market. You sigh and take a deep drag from your cancer stick, nod to whatever the hell your friends are rambling about and start thinking to yourself: How many men before you have failed? Why do you think that you’re any different from those dropouts? Does this shirt make me look fat? Is my breath kicking like Bruce Lee?!?!?!
Your friends drag you back to planet Earth and egg you on like they always do, promising a king’s treasure in exchange for…
Seven… Insignificant… Numbers.
You catch her eyes on you (!) and before she turns her head, your eyes meet for a fraction of a second. What do you do? Well??? No wonder they call them bartenders.
Good times in Chicago… Good times 
~Spec
