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Rachel Mallino
We Ain't No Miller and Nin His eyes press through the bar's night-light. I decide to show him a trick I learned at thirteen: how to curl cigarette smoke around my finger. Who needs long hair when you've got lips and hands? Honestly, I only come here for the jukebox; this single dollar gets me three plays and one extra if my fingers move fast enough. I see him interrogate the bar-keep. If he's looking for my name, I've faked it. This jangling drink is my pink wig. Everything about him, though, is real. Straight down to his torn pockets and worn palms. I wonder if pool balls cracking remind him of his mother hitting the floor. The only alchemy here pours, then empties.
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