by Scot Young
She has a nightly habit of dropping coasters and half damp books of matches between the tables. As a solicitation of higher tips she bends over knees locked and picks them up, putting them back on the tray always casually giving me a sideways glance. This routine inevitably allows me to catch a glimpse of just the edge of lace on her red panties stretched tight against her silk bronze skin. Like a downtown dancer after one revolution around the pole she spins, leans over the bar with her new breasts still sore from surgery and slowly adds ice to a drink. I study her calves as she leans forward and watch the bar clock slowly tick away seconds of Saturday Night Lonely. Quietly, I stir my drink and practice folding dollar bills into origami butterflies.
Scot Young, back in July, took us for a ride on The F Line.