"I'm a bar girl," she tells me,
seated on the stool next to mine,
her hair -- which
looks darker
than in the context of our office
has a reddish tint
she claims
gets redder in the
sun, and I believe her.
This is her world,
this landscape she worked as a bartender
when she lived in
Hometown before her marriage,
not a barfly (who has
no choice)
but a free wheeling
mistress of the night,
her eyes bright with the reflected light,
her long fingers curled around
the stem of her wine glass,
gently but firmly, fully in control,
drawing looks from the other men
who seem to envy my place beside her.
She completely aware of their stares,
even though she makes no attempt
to look in their
direction.
She controls us all
with the tilt of her head
and the easy way she sits,
a queen bee.
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