A Tiny White Lie
He looks at me then away again. I wonder if he's foreign. If his eyes are saying something, they just don't speak English. Maybe if I spoke French or German.
I gather by his expression that he's waiting for someone. He looks at the clock. He bites at a thumbnail. Bites, grabs, tears, sighs, completely lost in the ordinariness of it.
"Buy me a drink?" I ask.
He's looking at the clock again.
"You should have seen me last Friday. It was crazy." I whistle to Paul, the bartender, and motion for a drink. "I danced on the bar, right here," tapping the bar, dangerously close, rat tat.
Nothing. Russian? Portuguese. I ease forward on my stool until I am almost touching him. Until we are almost touching each other. He turns toward me and smiles. His eyes say, How nice for you. English, after all.
"I was wearing this slinky little black number," I peer up from beneath heavy lashes and perform a practiced heave of perfumed bosom. "And silver go-go boots."
"I'm sorry, ma'am." No smile this time. "I'm waiting for my girlfriend." He swivels on the barstool to face the door again.
"Girlfriend, huh?" I raise my chin and flash my most dazzling smile at the back of his head.
I've found that eyes rarely lie. It's the mouths that do the lying. An older gentleman is crossing the room, making his way to the bar. The Silver Fox, he looks at me, then sits down four seats over. He smiles. His eyes say, I desire you and I will treat you right.
What I've said before, it's a tiny white lie. I don't actually own silver go-go boots. But this is the story I always tell attractive men who look at me, or the clock, in a certain way.
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