older women

The bar door creaked—familiarly, without judgment. She walked in like she owned the place: her back straight, her chin slightly higher than usual. Her wine-red nails tapped against her leather handbag. Her heels clicked against the floor—she hated them, but style was more important.

The wedding ring lay at home in a porcelain saucer next to a rosary that had not been touched for months.

She took her corner—a bit dark, with a good view of the entire room. Two bloody martinis (not watery ones), and then she saw her… A girl? Almost a girl: 20 years old, tops? Looking lonely… Reading a book without a cover.

God.

“What are you doing here all alone, so beautiful?” she asked quietly, in the voice of old whiskey – dull and warm at the same time.

The girl looked up...

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