LADIES DRINK FREE

She's bitter about something.  This woman in the short pink dress that is both far too short, and far too pink.  How old could she be?  Forty?  A sad, hard thirty?  That seems more the ballpark, based on the deep lines around her eyes as she stares flatly at other, happier couples in the bar.  She's muttering something bitter and sharp under her breath as her eyes stare a hole in the dirty pint glass in her hand.  Look closer.  You see that maybe once, she was lovely.  Yes, lovely.  There was beauty there, once.  Not so long ago, before whatever happened to leave her so bitter and jaded, that pale skin so withered and drawn.  You're wondering if she walked down that same sad and lonesome road that you've been on for so long.  So very long.  So walk to her.  Hope against hope.  Be the white knight, pluck this bruised flower from...nope.  No, never mind.  Did you see that?  She just flung a fistful of dirty cocktail napkins wet with tears and cheap mascara at the bartender.  Oh, and now she called him a fucking faggot.  And now she just spit something dark on the bar in front of her.  Gross.  It looks like another night on that sad and lonesome road, my friend.  But look at it this way.  Some nights, it's better to walk alone.