LEAVE THE BOTTLE

With her head hanging low and heavy she stares back and forth from her lap to the phone in her fist.  There's no life there.  No little jingle of an incoming call, no little green light to show a text or an email has come in.  It's as still as a brick, like the weight down low in her belly, the weight planted firmly on her heart.  She looks up and she's a fright; tracks of mascara running down her cheeks from eyes red and bloodshot.  She tries forcing a grin onto her pallid face, but it fails and cracks and seems to fall off in pieces.  The bartender walks up to her to ask her things, but she does not hear him.  He wants to know how are you doing tonight, what can I get you, what are you drinking.  She knows what he is saying, but she only listens for the phone that won't ring.  She pulls out some cash and points at the bottle on the tallest shelf in the bar with a single, shaky finger and gets ready to speak.