I sat again at the bar today, trying to make houses out of toothpicks and the accessories of cocktails. I prefer the fancy, little onions, but sometimes I end
up eating them instead.
They laugh at me, I know, inside. I watch a couple schmooze, watch him pawn and gaw gaw over her. That's nice. It's nice they're not alone anymore.
My house of toothpicks, however, is not faring this holiday so well. The pretty little paper umbrellas are getting soggy.
I got a job, today. Watching a lovely child, he is so sweet. Reminds me of those little pink plastic King Cake babies...you know, the ones that represent the baby Jesus? Tthey bake 'em inside and the child that finds it will have good luck all year? Mardi Gras, I miss it. I wonder if the little children ever choke on those plastic babies?
I am collecting cocktail napkins. Discarded ones with the lovely woman's fake phone number, scribbled in lipstick in hopes that the man will leave her alone now. I have an abundance. I call them, sometimes, just to see if it's really her. It usually isn't.
My hair is adorned with little plastic swords, the kind you spear olives on. I look like a drunken porcupine. No worries, I am drunk and it is 10 A.M.
My house of cocktail architecture is falling down around me, and I'm alone, trapped inside it.
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