by Trenchcoat Tardigrade
I see you, waltzing in like there is nowhere that you don’t deserve to be, in your painted on jeans, too small tank top, and overpriced fuck me pumps.
I see you, standing in the aisle trying to choose a Pinot, a Merlot, or a Cabernet, flipping your long brown hair over your shoulder each time whoever it is makes a piss poor excuse for a joke in that glowing Bluetooth you are far too comfortable having shoved in your ear hole.
I see you, giggle, gasp, gossip, repeat; seizing a bottle to stare at the label, as if you know what it means, and putting it back wherever suits you, fucking up my shelves, all so you can go home to pajama pants and the hyperactive canine-rat that your type are so fond of.
I see you, sauntering over to me, wine in hand and eyes glued to your cell, to ignore my existence as anything more than the barrier between you and the evening destined to be the epitome of depression that 90’s rom-coms attempted to glamorize.
I see you, interpreting my request to see your I.D. as a flirt that you can cliché away, as you try to still appear barely legal with the globs of makeup that have been caked into the creases covering the front of your skull, even though it’s just part of my fucking CCTV monitored job.
I see you, strutting out, still yapping to nobody I would care to know, fifteen dollars and eighty-two cents poorer and with the undeserved confidence of thinking your Picasso face paint worked, despite the fact that I never actually looked at your date of birth.
I see you, crowding my memory, as I scribble down the only reason I cared about your I.D. at all.
I see you, or better yet, I will, when the GPS leads me to where you live.