Company

      Marjorie drove around the city, looking for the first bar open on a Sunday night.  Night after night had passed, filled with beer, joints and solitude.  She had long since memorized every line in Bridget Jones’s Diary.  Finally, having decided that she’d had enough, she was on the hunt. 
         After driving past all of her usual haunts, she spotted a final destination.  A neon sign gleaming “OPEN” hung in the window.  The interior promised dim lighting, and the clamor inside carried half-way down the block.  The window said “Shifty’s Bar and Grill.”  Whatever works, she thought.  Stepping through the open door, she wound her way through a crowd of noisy drunks to the bar. 
         She took off her coat, and hung it on the chair behind her.  Ordering a Sprite and a shot of tequila, she put flame to the unlit cigarette in her mouth.  Taking a deep drag, she allowed her eyes to wander, taking in her surroundings.  The man sitting next to her watched the crowd at the arcade, specifically a beautiful, tall woman whose large, not-so-innocent eyes glimmered in the soft light. 
         As the original version of “Layla” blared on the jukebox, Marjorie downed a second shot of tequila, and a third.  Somewhere between the fourth and fifth shots, the alcohol added more warmth to the smoky environment, and she let her guard down slightly.  She tapped the shoulder of the man next to her, and asked him for a Marlboro.  He turned and looked into her eyes.  Grinning, he offered the cigarette accompanied by a lighted match.

**************
         John woke up that morning to an empty bed.  Shielding his eyes from the sun’s harsh rays, he stumbled into the bathroom and quickly swallowed a horse’s dose of Ibuprofen.  He hadn’t gone to bed alone, someone had kept him company.  Wracking his brain, he tried to remember who she was.  Too many nights of too many substances made it all blend together.  Had he already known her?
He walked gingerly into the kitchen and filled a glass with water from the fridge.  He rubbed the stubble on his chin, and sat down on the black leather couch in the living room.  Taking a drink of water, he pulled out a pack of Marlboros.  Still trying to remember the girl from the night before, he sat back, sinking into the soft cushions.  Lighting a cigarette, he closed his eyes. Not even her face would surface to the backs of his eyelids.