She wasn’t part of the conversation, that was true. Yet the conversation was based upon her good graces. A bar, long but less and less stools filled besides the old cronies at the bar, well that was OK or so it seemed. What were they up to? These old professors of right and reason? She enjoyed the cheesecake. Wasn’t that enough? I forkful every twenty minutes to preserve her reputation, It was OK with them. They wee too into themselves like men happen the be. The old boys club , comparing stories of how they have tumbled the empire of some unsuspecting maiden? If she didn’t like them, she would have called them asshole. Maybe ordered them out of the bar. Instead she poured on. Perhaps in nothing else but the see how far they could take it. It wasn’t a holiday. She knew that they loved her in their own way. As long as they loved her the way that she wanted to be loved, it was OK! They were her boys.
The hour hand advanced in total mystery of the minute hand, How it got there, he or she or the rest of them couldn’t know? They were too busy trading war stories. Talking about things that couldn’t be easily explained looking for explanations. Why was it that they were where they were? Did it matter? What could it matter to anyone else? It was bar talk. She was the princess. The icon the shining Columbia Venus that pointed where the sun would rise that morning. An ivory beauty ready to catch the first rays of morning. How much more desirable could that be? She didn’t want to be double crossed.They were men and fully capable in the cups of doing so. She hope d that they thought well of her. One among them did, or so he thought so. She was his honey in this present impossible dream. Convinced of course that this was an impossible conviction. How could he reconcile the gap of so many years? It didn’t dim his attentions. Apparently drunk like the others. The pride of Circe. Caught in her corral, or so it seemed.