The air was hot, thick. Vaguely sweet, like cookies were being baked somewhere, everywhere. The faint taste of strawberries lingered on my tongue. It was all too heavy.
“My wife has Crohn’s Disease. My buddy has a 65’ catamaran,” Man #1 said at the outdoor bar.
“Score!” said Man #2, next to him.
The rest of their conversation was unintelligible. Maybe because there was an uptick in noise from the other outside patrons, or because I stopped caring.
“You’re never stuck if you have money for gas,” I heard someone else say from the other end of the bar. That’s true, I guess. Depends on if you’re mentally stuck. Or does it? Maybe money for gas is all we all really need.
There was one group separate from the others. The woman on the far right was overweight, but hadn’t gotten the memo. Her rouge lips sat pursed beneath her large, dark, fashionable shades.
She said very little; two seats over the skinny brunette dominated the conversation.
The brunette’s hair was messy – her looks could afford it. Hands always busy, she made direct eye contact like it was a sport. Her movements were effortless. Presupposed social acceptance dancing unconsciously in her eyes.
“I never say ‘y’all’!” she stated to everyone and to no one. “My mouth can’t even form the words. ‘Y’all.’” She laughed. “I’ve never said it,” she said.
Gold jewelry caressed tan, thin wrists as she waved to the bartender. “Thanks, Tim!” When she left the bar, so too did the men she sat with. Her flowery lilt decorated the air around her as she moved away.
No one noticed that the other woman with rouge and shades was gone. Had she been with them at all?