Sometimes I enjoy opening up my WIP folder and reading all the little thoughts and starters that never went any further. Sometimes I don’t. This is one of those I enjoyed:

I just made this story up so I don’t know if it’s true or not. It’s hard to believe I’d imagine something that wasn’t true though.

A young woman sits at the end of the counter atop a bar stool meant for someone much heavier. She is an extremely compact girl with flowing blonde hair and liquid amber eyes that catch the red and blue reflection of the neon sign over the bar. Her tight denim shorts and perfectly strained white T-shirt show off her comfort accessories the way a guy shows off his new sound system, only quieter. She’s there from 7:00 until 8:00 every night, on the same bar stool nurturing a rum and cola which she lifts to her lips but never drinks.

Men approach her and comment on her accessories. Disinterested she prefers to stare vacantly into the antique gold-veined mirror behind the bar and pretend to drink. She studies the incredibly beautiful etched flourishes at the corners of the massive piece of glass as a medical student would study cells and frog parts through a microscope.

Without checking the clock at precisely 8:00 she slips off the bar stool and walks quietly across the floor. She tosses one sly glance over her shoulder then steps out through the doorway to disappear into the encroaching darkness.

Twenty-three hours from now she will be back.

No matter how crowded the room will be at 6:55 tomorrow night that bar stool will be vacated. Even if someone famous were occupying it, which almost never happens, they will look at the clock then move to the darkened booth beneath the moose head.

At 6:57 the barkeep will place a rum and cola on a white napkin to the right of the stool between the beer nuts and piggy-puffs but away from the ashtray, a red or green clear plastic swizzle stick balanced across the rim of the glass. No ice.