Happy Hour

…she asked, “what are you so deep in thought about?” “about a girl I saw once,” I replied. She finished her martini, pushed the stemmed-glass and the cocktail napkin towards the bartender, “good luck with that” she said, carelessly. She walked away. She left. Her lips were imprinted on the martini glass, I examined the shape, each crease, and I thought about the possibility of language. How my words could be aimed at her. She was gone, so I aimed metaphors, similes, and calculated syllables at this particular stemmed glass. I swirled them around gently. All these ideas shaped themselves into a woman—miniature—inside this martini glass she was mine I carried her with me throughout the rest of the evening. When the night was over she broke apart into tiny little pieces; particles of matter, and soon she dissolved right there before my eyes and I went back to thinking about the possibility of language.