The Less Girls You Know (with a nod to R. Pettibone)

She's sitting sulking on the barstool,
made up in make-up,
a persona painted on for the pink of a good time.
She craves the attention one would usually reserve a good novel,
the problem is that she reads more like a fortune cookie,
one simple stanza for the stars she seeks so sincerely.
Intoxication for the sake of a conversation,
do you think she even sounds sincere?
A cat with human teeth,
a smile stained red from wine.
So far she has managed to keep up appearances,
that in itself is impressive,
I suppose.

Girls are never as good as you hope they'll be,
drinks are usually better than you think they'll be.
The less girls you know,
the better they're apt to be,
and the more time you devote to drinkin'
the less time you have for girls.
And it works
if you work it.
And even when you don't work it,
sometimes it works well enough anyway.

Sometimes well enough is enough.

You can tell by the way she punctuates his every line with a little laugh,
she won't be going home alone tonight.
You can tell by the way she avoids your gaze in the back bar mirror,
she won't be going home with you tonight.
Bewildered, and tilted at the tipping point,
somewhere between heartbroke and still hopeful.
Perched precariously on the edge of her barstool
and teetering
and teetering
before coming finally to the only logical conclusion.