He’d never been to this bar before. Never been in this town before. But he recognized her the instant the door closed behind him. Gave her a sideways smile. Got a flirty moue in return.

She was average height, slender, with long blond hair and a flimsy, silky little top. She tapped the barstool next to her with red, manicured nails. He knew the routine. Bought a couple of drinks, smoked a couple of cigarettes, danced to a couple of songs.

Did it a couple of times in her bedroom, in her apartment down the block from the bar.

In all the towns he’d traveled to, all the bars he seen, the bar slut always looked the same. Same tight jeans, long hair, delicate little nothing of a top. That was how he knew—it was almost a uniform, like they must hold an annual convention or something to decide what kind of tight sexy clothing to wear for the year. And a slut was cheaper than an escort service—try explaining that on a travel expense report. Buy her a couple drinks, shoot some pool or dance a couple slow songs, and you’re in.

She was pretty good. Not amazing, but fun, a nice diversion. Not good enough to remember her name tomorrow morning. Or if he ever came back to this town. He took a drag off his cigarette and looked over at her, blond hair cascading on the pillow. Remembered her last words to him: “I have to be up at six. Don’t know when you’re leaving, but there’s coffee in the cupboard. Just rinse your cup before you go.” And she touched his cheek softly. “G’night.”

And now he was still awake, lying in her bed, next to her, thinking that was a nice thing to say and wishing he remembered what her name was. She’d said at some point during the evening, but he hadn’t really been listening.

He wondered if she knew there was somebody like her in every town, maybe even in every bar. He wondered if making it with every guy available made her feel special or wanted. Was that what she wanted? To feel special? She’d made him feel special, just by offering him a fucking cup of coffee. What did it say about him? What did it say about her? Maybe she only did it because she was bored and lonely, like him. But maybe there was more to this woman than the ones he’d been with before. What if she was different? Maybe he should try to wake up with her, fix the coffee for her, maybe even take her out to breakfast…

When he woke up, she was gone.

No note, no goodbye kiss. No phone number in case he wanted to get in touch again.

Just like all the others. Bitch.

Slut.

He rinsed his coffee cup and got in the car. His tears made it hard to see the road.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.