The bar scene did not seem to let me be, but mostly it was because I didn't want it to. The bittersweet taste of a pitcher of beer called out to me whenever "plans for tonight" came as a text message through my phone with a simple question mark at the end, speaking it's sweet tune of a "good time."
However, as much of a good time this chapter was, it was short, and mostly faded.
Like in the picture next to this text, you will notice the glare of the sun almost blocking the vision of the woman. The thing is, I do not recall her name, the only thing that left a print in my memory was her sleeves, her tattoos that slowly painted a picture that called out to me.
Art that spoke to me without actually saying anything.
Her pitch-black hair almost lost against the backdrop of the night, the small light from the light-bulb outside on the patio hovering over her, covering most facial features that would allow me to pull her out of a crowd.
A good sense of humor, not shying away from multiple uses of the word "fuck" and perhaps what I thought was the best part--her laugh. It was genuine, it was contagious, and it was sincere.
Her tough-chic demeanor carried her through the bar as someone who frequented it, and someone who knew how to handle her liquor. But behind the attitude, there was smarts. Her philosophical nature would engulf the night around my best friend and I as she told tales of her past and how it had helped shape her to who she was then at that very moment.
Her tattoos always on the prowl, staring at me, judging me, perhaps? I do not recall; I was too intoxicated to even fathom an explanation of why's and wherefore's.
And as the night turned away and last call rang the bell, her very essence lifted from the air and her presence vanished from the bar.
Good night, Tattoo Girl, for I never knew your name, perhaps because I wasn't worthy of knowing it. Or deserving of remembering it.
However, as much of a good time this chapter was, it was short, and mostly faded.
Like in the picture next to this text, you will notice the glare of the sun almost blocking the vision of the woman. The thing is, I do not recall her name, the only thing that left a print in my memory was her sleeves, her tattoos that slowly painted a picture that called out to me.
Art that spoke to me without actually saying anything.
Her pitch-black hair almost lost against the backdrop of the night, the small light from the light-bulb outside on the patio hovering over her, covering most facial features that would allow me to pull her out of a crowd.
A good sense of humor, not shying away from multiple uses of the word "fuck" and perhaps what I thought was the best part--her laugh. It was genuine, it was contagious, and it was sincere.
Her tough-chic demeanor carried her through the bar as someone who frequented it, and someone who knew how to handle her liquor. But behind the attitude, there was smarts. Her philosophical nature would engulf the night around my best friend and I as she told tales of her past and how it had helped shape her to who she was then at that very moment.
Her tattoos always on the prowl, staring at me, judging me, perhaps? I do not recall; I was too intoxicated to even fathom an explanation of why's and wherefore's.
And as the night turned away and last call rang the bell, her very essence lifted from the air and her presence vanished from the bar.
Good night, Tattoo Girl, for I never knew your name, perhaps because I wasn't worthy of knowing it. Or deserving of remembering it.
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