Transit + Bar Seat

The anonymity in being in a transit hub. Like dipping into the edge of a whirlpool only to have the momentum fling you out in an undetermined direction instead of sucking swirling you down. You will get to where you are going as long as you do not try to find a seat at the bottom of the whirlpool.

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The tiny watch chained with bits of gold
and you announce your tequila choices confidently
Real gold, mismatched to the rest of your rings
The bartender moans in pleasure
taste ghosting her lips of a shot
You slam your phone between sips
The thin chain on your tiny watch tinkles
the links colliding with the marble bar top
You call the bartender by name
she does not do the same.