Last Call
The familiar drag of the bar stool announces to no one in particular that I’m here. Again. The bartender has already poured my well vodka soda with lime and holds his hand out expectantly for my card; he knows to keep my tab open. The first sip tastes like communion, I breathe a sigh of relief, settle back in my chair and I am at home, this is church to me. I grew up in church but never felt quite as comfortable in the pews of bright-eyed parishioners dressed in their Sunday best seeking God, as I do in the neon-lit booths of dive bars crammed with mascara stained and sweaty bodies seeking something. I glance around the bar to see who will play a character in tonight’s story. That’s what I love about bars, nearly all good stories start with, “So (someone and someone else) walk into a bar”- punchline and antics ensue. I realize too late my black dress has slipped up too high on my thigh and my self-harm scars are showing. My face flushes and I jerkily pull it t...