No More Friday Nights

Dry mouth is a misnomer after you’ve had your last swig of beer. Skunk mouth too base; Slack-jawed: your face.

No holds are barred and this bar can’t hold you. Off your rocker stool to go play pool, you say, or some such other brawny, burly, ballsy nonsense.

Now I’ve seen tipsy and cow-tipping, but tipping a waitress with an ass-grab and an air-smooch is a new low, even by your slithering snake-belly standards.

My neck, craned left from scowling, now aches from shaking.

My next boyfriend will have to be a chiropractor.

I say my goodnights with a quick extinguishing of a lit cigarette in the withering remains of that swill by the bill.

If no-contact kissing was good enough for her, fair play follows that you like it the same way.

I take one long last look back at your salty pillar before hitting door, pavement and the eye-rolling, thumb-drumming dreams of that Pink Cadillac.

Ashtray-licking was just a blunt metaphor you’d stolen from someone funnier. Maybe I’ll laugh again if it’s told differently.

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