The girls. The bar. The bill

The girls. The bar. The bill. (Image by Mauricio Mascaro)

The girls. The bar. The bill. 

Listen, listen...and don't interrupt, please. This happened, I'm telling you, it did. No, I swear, it did—real story. Somewhere, downtown. A boy, a girl, a bar. Simple, right? No. It wasn’t. 

I was there. In the corner, alone. I had stopped by just for one glass of wine. Only one. 

The waitress had just placed my glass on the table. 

Then I saw him. The fool. He was an office type—buttoned up, a tie at his neck, tucked in, stiff—a corporate, nerdy guy. The kind with kids and a wife at home, you know. 

He was sitting alone at a table. Anyone could tell—this was not his kind of place. He didn’t belong. He knew it. I knew it. Everyone knew it. 

He kept turning, looking around. Nervous. Checking his watch—he checked it a lot. Shifting in his seat. 

I could tell, anyone could, he was waiting for someone. A girl. It was obvious. 

Then they arrived. Three of them. Three girls. They walked straight to the fool’s table—giggling, excited, they didn’t even stop for him. He looked around, smiled timidly. 

His body language said it all—this was not what he had expected. It was supposed to be one girl. Who were the others? 

They were town girls. Three bad girls. Ripped jeans, short skirts, mini dresses, half tops. Cleavage out. All out. This was their space. The bar. The night. They knew why they were there. I knew why they were there. Did the fool know? Did he? 

Well, he didn’t leave, so I doubt he knew! 

The stage was set. The moment they walked in, I knew. It wasn’t ending well. 

They slid into their seats, took over the table, owned the space. He smiled—awkward, hopeful, stupid. They immediately signaled for the waitress. 

They didn’t even see him. 

Drinks started to flow. Laughter spilled. They danced, they swayed, they screamed when their favorite songs came on. 

He tried, kept trying—he really did—to catch her eye, to have her attention, the one that counted, to say something, anything. 

Nothing. 

Until the drinks would run low. 

Then— She would turn. A hand on his arm. A soft smile. A slow, sweet whisper—"Should we send for another bottle, babe?" 

And just like that, he would nod. More! 

The orders stacked up. Kept stacking. More bottles. More shots. More toasts to nothing. To the night. To the fool paying for it all. 

At first, he would laugh or giggle now and then, a little too loud, a little too forced. He thought he was part of it. The night, the fun. He wasn’t. 

His wallet bled. 

As the hours passed, he stopped drinking. He stopped laughing. Just sat there, watching. He watched what they were drinking. Then he would laugh sheepishly when they laughed, nodding along when they did, pretending all was fine. 

Every time the waitress came with another tray, his eyes flickered—nervous, desperate. He wiped his forehead, swallowed hard. A lot. 

His fingers trembled as he checked his phone. Again. Again. Typed something. Deleted it. Typed again. Paused. Licked his lips. Took a breath. Laughed too hard at nothing. 

Another tray landed. Another round. He slumped into his seat. 

Then, he looked up. 

Saw me. Saw my eyes. My disdain. My judgment. 

He looked away. Looked around again. Checked his phone again. 

Pretended to type. Pretended to pick a call. Nodded to no one. 

Picked up a bottle, held it like an excuse, stood up slow, danced a bit. 

Walked toward the door, a bottle in hand—calm, deliberate. As if on a call. As if coming back. 

Then— Gone. 

At first, they didn’t notice. When the waitress brought another tray, they immediately popped the bottles open. 

Still laughing, still swaying, still caught in their own rhythm. 

Then— The shift. 

First, one of them looked at the seat. Had been empty too long. A pause. Confusion. Then another girl noticed. Then another. Their rhythm faltered. A beat of silence. Then panic. Movements slowed, nervous, derailed. 

One by one, they sat. Looked around. The main girl checked her phone. Called. 

No answer. They stopped drinking. 

She texted. Nothing. 

And I could tell—the fool had turned clever. Oh! That fool! He wasn’t coming back. He was under his covers by then, sleeping off his wins—supposed to be losses. 

I braced myself for the next. 

Then, the waitress arrived. 

Not smiling. Not amused. Tired. She wanted to go home. But first, they had to pay. 

She tapped her walkie-talkie. Minutes later, the manager was in their faces, arms crossed, face blank—the kind of blank that meant business. 

Here. Pay up. 

The girls? Each found their phone now. Desperate. But they knew it. Town girls. They knew it. He was not coming back and no one would. 

The fool was gone. 

Then came the call. I mean, the manager. He did call someone. 

Minutes later, two cops were in their faces. No games, no patience. One nod from the manager and they motioned the girls to step out. 

And me? I sipped my wine. 

Give it to him. The fool. Whether he played the game or not—he ended it clever. He vanished from them. From the night vultures. 

I’ll give him that. Oh! That fool. Never again. 

EzroniX; How We Talk About Love.