She stood in the doorway.
I didn’t see her come in the door, couldn’t see through the twisting, blue-grey cloud of cigarette smoke and the blurring haze of a six-beer Sunday. I didn’t see her come through the door, even though she was just what I was looking for.
Short-cut black hair, too-high heels and a too-short skirt. Living her life in overdrive, scraping through everyone else’s leftovers, not even noticing her own. The crowd collapsed and staggered, folding inward against themselves, disappearing.
I only had eyes for her.
She came to the bar, leaned heavily against the stained-oak finish.
“Vodka, Red Bull. Double.”
“Make it two,” I said, swallowing down the dregs of my pint, grimacing. Warm beer.
She stared, waiting for me to pay for her drink as well as my own. I obliged, and thanked the bar tender for putting my change in the warm puddle I’d been resting my elbows in.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like,” she asked, hissing, “to live with a recycled heart?”
I didn’t – and I said as much to her.
She turned her back, walked away.
The crowd swallowed her up, and the world came crashing down.
I know when I’ve had enough.
I stood in the doorway, heading home.
Written for some of this week’s BeKindRewrite prompts – Recycled Heart, Leftovers and Overdrive. Comments and criticism always welcome.