Hair

Her hair is fucking spectacular. No one ever believes me when I say that the first thing I notice on a girl is her hair. The worst are other girls. They roll their eyes and laugh, thinking it's just some line I use to make them think I'm not interested in how perky their tits are. Like it's all some ploy to play the sensitive guy. All I know is that her, this girl, her hair is fucking spectacular. She moves across the bar with a presence that made me turn back towards the rail of unopened high-end liquors, untouched by the cheap bastards who use this place as a pit-stop between work and their rat-hole apartments, fueling up on high-proof spirits in any attempt to forget they just wasted fourteen hours of their life. I come in only occasionally, whenever a few cigarettes on the walk home won't do it. The bartenders have heavy hands and pour out shots of tequila into highball glasses just to completely eradicate any chance of accidentally measuring a drink. It does the job. Every now and then one of the guys that frequent the place brings over some over-sexed coworker of his hoping he'll get her liquored up enough to fuck him, but she inevitably gets so drunk she starts thinking she can do better. The thing with this place is that there's never anyone here that you can do better with. You only ever move sideways – from barstool to barstool the same mess of a human being. We slouch, our thoughts all the same. "I've got enough for a few more drinks;" "Why don't I just quit;" "I should talk to her, maybe I could fuck her tonight." Tonight, though, all I could think about was that hair.
It's been too long since I spent a night with a woman. I'm the first to admit it. Honestly, I couldn't tell you what it is. It's been like being a hitter on a bad streak. Eventually it gets so bad you stop shaving, start wearing your undershirt inside out... Anything to just hit the ball squarely and get on base. The problem is that I just don't care anymore. I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't take the opportunity if it presented itself, but what's the point of trying anymore. Every time in my life I open my fucking mouth and try, I just end up sitting back here nursing whatever part of my ego just got wounded with enough Jose Cuervo to make it all fade into gold and silver. Tonight's no different, expect for that hair. That constant reminder of the fact I haven't gotten any, of the fact I'm sitting here alone on the way back to a one-bedroom, one-bathroom, half-kitchen apartment. I can see it swishing around her shoulders as she turns the corner of the pool table she's at. Every shot, every aim moves that hair, catching my eye in the mirror behind the bar. It's covered with fifteen years of smoke and Windex, making it like dull silver, catching only colors and amorphous shapes. But it catches every movement and every strand of that hair.
She's the type of woman that's got more of a future than a past. The thought chills me to the bone; the rampant uncertainty of whether I could say the same for myself terrifies me. I can't look her in the eyes. I can't even dream of talking to her now. The thought of something less than perfection isn't worth the risk. The constant noise of the bar falls into a cadence, like laughter mocking the fact I'm alone. I ask the bartender for another, waving away the shaker of ice, hoping that if the tequila is warm enough it could do more than just numb me. She moves effortlessly, confident that her step won't falter. Her movements ripple out like a wave and I shuffle on the stool, feeling her presence run through me. The tequila follows, chasing her away, its empty promises only subdued by the fact that it's always there. Its stench follows me home and sleeps with me, wrapping my body in a cocoon.
The tequila swims down my throat. I drown in it, alcoholic tears blur my vision and as I swallow the popping of my ears silences the bar. It's warmth replaces her, my mouth caressed by it. But it's fleeting, and I ascend upwards towards the cacophony and discord. The cadence falls back in place, clink and clatter surrounds me. My eyes dry up and the mirror comes back into focus. Light pours in as I surface from the depths, my pupils dilate and her hair becomes even clearer. Its auburn smoothness replaces the tequila's gold burn. My throat is on fire as I breathe air and her instead of alcohol. The bar crescendos to a roar as she turns towards the mirror. The shape of her eyes forbidden, I look down at the emptiness in front of me. The glass, which was so full of promise, is only a reminder now.
I can't handle it anymore, the whole bar. It overwhelms me, pushing me down and out. She comes up, right next to me; I can feel her breath on my neck as she orders. Whiskey sour. Whiskey sour. My body tenses up, it won't let me move away from the safety of my twenty inches of wood and vinyl. I can almost imagine that hair brushing against my cheek as if it was my hair. As if I could move so effortlessly, so calmly, so sure that this wasn't it for me. I feel sick just thinking about it and the bar pushes harder and stronger. Down and out, the street is a welcome sight. And slowly, the cadence fades into the disheartening quiet that is the never-ending noise of a city that doesn't sleep. My head clears until all that's left is that hair. My god... That hair.