Disinterested

Disinterested

She had an air of quiet intelligence. She sat on her bar stool in the tightest red dress I’d ever seen, her amber eyes on her drink and a cigarette between her fingers. Each puff of smoke was the same as the next, each sip of her vodka exacting. She was good, real good, and I’d just drunk enough to tell her.

Her message was conveyed with a care I attributed to careful consideration. Of all the words in all the world, she chose two just for me. I appreciated that; she didn’t have to go the effort.

I left with my tail between my legs and her eyes burning a hole in my back.

What did she say, I hear you shout? What wonderful knowledge did those words impart? Let’s say, she was disinterested, and we won’t be chatting again.