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     We sat at the end of the bar in a seedy place on Seventh street.  Nursing our drinks, we both had a bit too much that night.  My Whiskey Sour, you could tell everything about me by my drink, always a Whiskey Sour, no mystery here, was still about half full.  Hers, this time a Strawberry Daiquiri, she drained with ease.  
     "Set her up another Bar Keep," I sad to the burly tattooed man behind the counter.
     She quickly responded with slightly slurred speech, "No, make it a Frozen Margarita!"  She had been mixing her drinks all night.  The bar man grabbed her glass and placed it in a small sink full of sudsy water. 
     "I told you, two drinks ago, last call, now dude drink up so I can get out of here.  For Christ sake its 2:38,  I should have left 30 minutes ago."  The bar's last patrons had indeed left much earlier leaving only the two of us.  I touched Sarah's, or was it Sandy's, hand.  What difference does it make?  She looked at me trying to focus her eyes, her expression bland.  Eyes roaming unabashedly from face to groin and back again.  She sighed heavily and turned back to the bar tender and pleaded for one more drink.  
     "Anything she said," trying to steel herself for the inevitable culmination of our evening, as if one more drink would make a difference.  The only response she got was a short firm, 
     "No!"  Grinding my teeth, I threw two twenties on the bar and grabbed her, not so gently, by the arm.  She half slid, half fell off of the bar stool she was sitting on.  
     "Lets go I said," leaving my half empty glass on the bar.  She stumbled across the floor towards the door leaning heavily against me.  She was tall and beautiful in a slightly used sort of way.  Not young but not old enough for wrinkles, just a few laugh lines around her eyes and forehead.  As we reached the door I thought I heard her mumble something about getting this over.  I didn't care.  I knew she should have been going home with someone a lot better than me.  

     As we stepped into the damp, cool morning breeze, head free of the stagnate dead air of the bar, my senses cleared slightly.  Still, when I heard the sound of the vibration in my pocket it took a moment to register what was happening.  Stephanie(?), giggling beside me pressed herself against my pocket letting out a low, playful, "MMmmmm," making it impossible for me to get to my phone.  I pushed her away and she giggled some more as I fumbled for it.  Pressing the button on the screen my ex-girlfriends disheveled face appeared.  She had been texting me all evening, most of which I ignored.  Why I answered her call this time I don't know.  Deep purple and black bruises ran the length of the right side of her face and she seemed to have a chunk of hair missing from a red spot on her temple.  She halfheartedly tried to cover it with a wispy lock she pulled down over it.      
     "What?" I said gruffly.  
     The phone was set to speaker.  Tears running down her face, she said, "I love you."  
     My response was quick and indifferent, "Yeah, tell it to someone who cares.  Like maybe your new boyfriend."  

     She dumped me for a new guy weeks before but kept calling me and telling me how much she still loved me.  She said she wouldn't have thrown me out if I had shown some feelings toward her.  She said he was sensitive and emotional and cried in her arms.  Yeah, he cried all right just before he beat the hell out of her.  I should have known when she started coming home with the bruises on her body.  He was careful at first not to hit her in the face.  I looked up and reflectively glanced down the street.  You couldn't see her apartment from where I stood but it was just a block down the road off Seventh on Stanton Ave.  I came home early one afternoon and found them there.  She was lying on the floor with blood trickling from her lip.  He was standing naked over her, hands curled in fists.  I lost it.  I beat him until you couldn't recognize his pretty little face, all the time hearing her screaming stop and trying to push me away.  When I finally stopped he was lying motionless on the floor and she was hitting me on my arm yelling foul expletives at me.  I looked into her eyes and realized I felt nothing for her at that moment.  I remember saying just before I left, "Baby, you've just missed your last call to wake up."  I never went back.  I understand he spent several days in the hospital.

     Looking at her on that small screen with tears in her eyes and scared, sad look on her face I wanted to feel something for her.  I didn't.  We had a good thing and she threw it away for some psycho.  Now she'll just have to live with her decision.  As I looked at her pleading face I heard a angry voice in the back ground, 
     "Who are you talking to!"  She glanced in the direction of the voice and turned back to me.  I watched as her helpless look became determined and she leaned over and picked up something from the table beside her bed.  Her sweet, tear filled blue eyes looked directly at me as she raised her hand.  "I love you," she said.  In an instant, before my inebriated mind could fathom what happened, I heard a loud bang reverberate down the street from the direction of her apartment and there before my eyes I saw her head explode like the pumpkins we used to throw from the roof tops after Halloween.  Beside me, Sherry, (it started with an S), who ever, let out a gasp.  A moment passed and I grabbed her by the hand.  We started off in the direction of my dumpy apartment.  I couldn't help but to think at that moment, that's the last call she'll ever make.


10/13/15

Triple Prompt- Hear the Calling: 3rd Place

11/12/15
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