she bartender
I like that it looks like you just rolled out of bed. Your hair is kinda greasy, hanging dirty down your back. Your face is greasy, too—but I like it. Your basic clothes—that may be dirty or maybe you slept in them—are just right. And your cheap shoes, knockoff Keds, are perfect because they wear the streets you take to work Sometimes you don’t wear a bra. Ideal. Or when you do, it's not padded or a push up, it is cotton white and stained. I assume you have a male roommate who is overweight and games all night. And you can barely make rent. Maybe your Dodge doesnt turnover in the cold, and you have layers of childhood trauma. But you are confident. And you’re sexy. You are more woman than most women. You know who you are, and you own it. And I have a crush on you. From afar. And the way you mix my Manhattan, in my peacoat and privilege—I’d love to take you home, but I don‘t have the courage so I admire from my barstool instead.