Orbit
Give in to him. Right here, in this humid, sticky bar where twenty-somethings sweat over their beers and stare at each other like it’s life or death. You and this man, middle-aged and alone, drinking slow spirits instead of sweet shots, instead of something bright and cloying. You’ve been around long enough to remember Saved by the Bell and your home phone number, old enough to know better, to make this happen—or walk away.
Give in.
He’s been watching you for the past hour, soft eyes glancing in that careful, nonchalant way that makes your cheeks flush and your legs cross. He’s wearing one of those plaid shirts that’s come back into fashion, and you bet he smells good, like that cologne your last boyfriend used to wear. This guy, with his glances and his blue plaid, he wants to buy you a drink, take you home, play you Oasis as you fuck, and make breakfast in the morning. He wants to see where it might go.
But you’re leaving soon, you in your tight jeans and that new top you weren’t sure you could pull off. Tonight, tomorrow, or the day after. You’ll be onto the next town, the next country, the next planet. You’ll leave this orbit for somewhere different, not better, where you’ll gaze into some other fool’s eyes across another bar. A thousand more times.
The song changes, a pop hit you’ve both danced to a million times, and somehow the twenty-somethings roar in delight, their bright faces lit, contagious. You look at him, and he’s already looking at you, and you both laugh, raising your glasses in a toast—to being wrong in all the right ways.
Give in.
Don’t.
You’ve done this before—the drink, the song, the fucking, the goodbye. But still, you stay a little longer. Savor the warmth of his gaze. The laugh in the air. The orbit you share—before it collapses again.
After/Thought Literary 