The Whiskey Monologues

WHISKEY DREAMS

I’ve had men look at me like that, but never quite the way you do. I wear my tall boots and raglan shirts and sway around at some shitty dive with whiskey in one hand and a beer in the other. You follow me with your eyes, one hand hooked under my hemline, fingertips like a whisper across my skin. I smile and lick the last bits from the shot glass rim, stubbornly claiming that Uncle Jack is my best friend and tastes like candy. It reminds you of the tootsie rolls you always keep in your jacket pocket for your sweet tooth, just like my late great-grandfather. And I like that about you.

I like that about us: that we’re simple people with classic vices that prefer to paint our perspectives in hues of nostalgia. Because we live our city lives with our college degrees, but we both prefer to discuss the possibility of fucking in the bathroom. And how it’s too cold to try the alley. We’re respectable people but we were born in the wrong time: we’ve got these white trash roots and a weakness for folk tunes. You tell me you want to take me in a field beneath river birch trees, so I wear sundresses to the show despite the winter weather just so I can watch you struggle to keep your distance. It’s lust that glazes your eyes, but they smolder like that because when you look at me you can see your dreams of farmhouses in North Carolina and springtime spent on front porches. And I see the same scenes when I look at you.

You want me, but you want all of me.

Submitted by Amateur Cartography.