A bar on the edge of town

[tonywalt]

She went out because the walls were too close.
Because the clock kept nagging.
Because the bed felt like an argument.

The bar was nothing—
a dive with a busted neon sign,
two stools sticky with ghosts.

She sat. She ordered gin.

She leaned forward, letting the strap slip, just so.

He watched from down the bar—
that kind of man.
A lean smile,
a jacket too thin for the season.

He asked if she wanted company.
She said nothing,
but her shoulder made room.

They talked about nothing:
bad weather,
old cars,
the price of drinks.

Later, in his apartment—
a room that smelled of old paperbacks
and rain—
she let him take off her coat.
Her dress.
Her hesitations.

He traced her like a blind man
learning a new country.

She gave him the body she woke up in—
the one with the bruises
time had left.

After, she stared at the ceiling
while he slept,
the fan creaking like an old confession.

Morning came cheap and gray.
She left a note that said nothing.
She left her name behind.

And outside,
the city didn’t care.
Didn’t notice.
Didn’t ask.