At an upscale bar,
I sat over a dark beer.
It was a week into the new year.
And sink or swim in a bin of regrets,
I’d have a partner this year.
The foam cracked over Redhook.
The wood tables glistened.
The mug that I gripped
cooled my hands and sparkled
as though a worker hand-dried
the glass.
R&B hits played over the stereo.
I scanned the room,
returned my eyes
to my drink, and pressed
the notification on my phone.
I waited for the woman matching
a dating profile picture.
I swore I’d never use one
of those goddamn apps.
Yet, there I was.
And there Lorrie was,
approaching me.
Besides her oval blue eyes,
Lorrie looked nothing like her profile.
Lorrie’s long, dark hair spiraled
to the small of her back.
I bit my bottom lip before
I cared whether she noticed.
Lorrie’s cross tattoo on her wrist
confused me because the woman
in the picture had no ink.
Lorrie wasn’t just another girl.
She was the girl of my dreams.
Lorrie said she thought I’d
never fall for a goth girl.
But I did.
Lorrie reached for my glass,
and she took a long sip.
“Dark beer.” She winked. “My kinda guy.”
I blushed.