Pearl maker.

The world is a pearl-less oyster and it falls right onto my lap. I do nothing with it — knowing its been robbed. I let it sit there like an egg on a counter. A water stain seeps into my pants. Annoyance. I feel the liquid penetrate the fabric as it runs down my thigh, then worse, turns for my crotch. Irritation be gone — I brush off the oyster and it falls to the floor. Crud sticks to the back of my hand like a kiss mark. I wipe it off on the side of my chair. Feet stamp the ground, my ass lifts from the chair and I pull on my crotch — just once — in a hapless attempt to feel drier, then I reseat. A few minutes later a waitress comes by and sweeps the world into a butler. I don’t know where it came from, and I don’t know where I’m going, but if you come with me, random blonde woman, I’m sure there will be treasure. I sit here in this dive bar, collect salt on my fingers, and glue my eyes to staticy outdated tv — strapped to a platform and a pipe sticking out of the wall. Family feud is on. Steve Harvey and his bald head reflecting light like a mirror. I briefly ponder his own self assessments — what they must be like — and I conclude he must be happy with himself. Then I focus back on me. I think about my highschool love and wash her down with a gulp of ale. I think about my college love and blow her out with a cigarette. I think about my law school love and it all comes crashing down. Oh how she sucked for me. Oh how she did. Then I think about you, random blonde woman. Too old for me, probably, but who cares. You’ve been talking to me all this time. I heard three words. Maybe. If that. But all irrelevant. The world is in a dumpster now. I think about you.

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