courtesy of the tequila at your favorite sunday spot, i’m thinking of you tonight. presumably, in ways that you would expect. i had an evening with my friends and we talked and we laughed and we cheers’ed our drinks but my eyes kept drifting to the door.
at the off chance you would walk in, what would i do? i would have to do nothing. those are the rules. i’ll follow them. you don’t walk through the doors tonight, so i’m left to partially listen to the conversation at the table, sip my drink and let my mind wander to mysterious places. the pictures i’m painting in my head are fueled by my featherweight hope and the drink in my system.
hopeful girl sits at table, tossing hair behind left shoulder with her right hand, doesn’t bother with a menu; she knows what she wants. chatter at the table perpetuates, but her mind is always wandering, so she looks around the restaurant and then she looks up at the door. the blue iron that garnishes the main door makes his eyes pop far beyond his white button up. he’s alone. he surveys the busy tables, the busy bar and finally turns to the left to face the back room and sees her. he came for her. she’s pretending not to look because those are the rules. he’s crazy to approach her. those aren’t the rules. but when he’s standing at the table, she can’t catch her breath. he just smiles and says “come with me.” and her friends don’t matter anymore, her drink on the rocks doesn’t matter anymore. she just stands up and he takes her hand and people in the restaurant are looking because it’s cinematic and he leads her out of the blue door and not a moment passes outside before he grabs her and kisses her mouth. “you are mine,” he says.
but my mind can be so irresponsible sometimes.
i order an extra shot of tequila, top shelf. if i’m going to drink to you, it’ll be the best that i can get.
the top-tier tequila touches my lips with such strength, such veracity, such say-so, right there in the middle of the restaurant. the tequila touches my lips in ways that you never could.