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From the vault: Vignette - Ambiguous

“We finish,” says the man.
“Each other’s sentences,” says the woman.
“She’d like a Cosmopolitan,” says the man to the bartender.
“He’ll have a Jack Daniels on the rocks,” says his companion.
“Isn’t this place wonderful?” They exclaim together, and giggle like high school sweethearts who’ve only been going out for a month.
Arms around each other, they go back to their table, sipping their drinks.

You can be anyone.
But who am I here? Who do I want to be?

“Oops, sorry,” says a blonde beauty that almost spills her martini on me. “I think I’ve had too many of these tonight.”
“Well who can blame you,” I say. “This place is supposed to be just a one night deal, right?”
“Well said! Here’s to more then!” She raises her glass and almost falls, but I steady her back with a hand. She thanks me and moves toward the back of the bar.

“Who might you be, on this fine night?” Says the bartender, noticing that I am alone.
“I haven’t decided yet. I thought maybe an actor, but I really don’t like actors nowadays, and nobody likes the actors of the old days. Or maybe a singer, but I don’t know any of the new songs today, and nobody knows the old ones. A body builder? A model? I don’t know.”
The bartender nods sympathetically.
“Hey man, try not to beat yourself up too much of about it. Just say what comes to your mind first, and then change it later, if you want. Nobody cares. Everything’s just for a night, anyway.”
He moves away to take someone’s order, two gin tonics, and I fall back to thinking. Who do I want to be? An author? Nobody likes authors. Too stuffy and bookish. Most of the good ones, anyway. I could be a race car driver, but who’s interested in motors and curves and drifting?

“Hi,” someone says behind me. I turn to face a girl wearing a cocktail dress of dark gold. Perfect white teeth peek through a small, pretty mouth with full lips. She’s smiling—I can’t decide if it’s seductive or sad. Her dark brown hair flows straight down to her bare shoulders, and I see the curves of her breasts, that show just the right amount of cleavage over her neckline to be classily sexy, unlike a number I’ve seen here.
And right on cue, a girl in a green bikini top and jeans suddenly staggers on me and flings her arm over my shoulder. She smells of alcohol and jasmine.
“Hi cutie!” She says.
My newfound and unnamed acquaintance looks at her, smiling, eyes shining, confident and unassuming. Bikini girl takes her hand off me, suddenly seemingly sobered, and wordlessly saunters over to a guy wearing an undershirt and a bandanna.
The more I look at her, the more she becomes crazy beautiful, this girl in gold. I notice a small scar on her right knee, but I am soon lost in the perfect flow of her curves, of the way her legs are crossed over each other, of the arch of the soles of her feet.
“Hi,” I say back.


It's all about the time. As always, there are stories in my head. Some nice, some bad, some I will write down on paper - digital and otherwise - and some will never see the light of day. But writing stories for me is about time - lots of it - time which I do not have. Sigh.

And just for the record, Bikini Girl existed here long before that presumptuous idiot on American Idol broke the stereotype that being dumb was only for blondes.


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