Her small bare feet slapped the pavement mindlessly as she pranced around in front of a board that claimed, “Every Hour is Happy Hour.” Except every hour really wasn’t happy hour. In the cheap sidewalk chalk she owned, her father marked happy hour down only from six to seven pm. But she didn’t care. Happy hour was now and that was the important thing. She didn’t have to slave around the dimly lit bar, gathering empty shot glasses that reeked of puke or beer bottles with glistening beads of beer on the lips of the bottles. But most importantly, she didn’t have to spend her time dreading the late hours of when the men made her forget she was still a young girl.
The sky above her, stained with the steel, white clouds of winter and an absent moon, was darkened to an indigo blue two shades lighter than the black of a widow’s veil. But again, that didn’t matter. She danced on the empty sidewalk to Credence Clearwater’s upbeat guitar strums of “Bad Moon Rising” as they drifted from the door propped open with a gray worn brick. Happy hour was now, and she was happy.
She caught her reflection, radiant against the dark tinted window. A seven year old girl, with similar features that of the angels pictured on the Valentine’s hallmark cards she usually found discarded under the bar stools after closing hours, battered with scrawls of unfinished love letters; gazed back from the glass. In the puddle of her wide blue eyes were violet pearls scattered on her ocean floor. The corners of her eyes wilted slightly with the weight of the sadness they held, and even when she wore her biggest smile—one that she always thought might grow right out of the contour of her small plum face—she’s asked why she’s so sad. Her face was framed with a head of shimmering gold ringlets that fell to graze the tops of her small shoulders.
She felt quite classy as her white knee-length dress billowed around her wiry legs in the wind; enough to picture herself sitting alongside the naïve hallmark angels, conversing with them. The simple fact that she stood barefooted on the blemished pavement didn’t take away from her presumed elegance at all, in fact it added to it.
“Cindy!” her father’s drunken gravelly voice bellowed angrily from inside the bar, interrupting her haze of self-admiration and obnoxiously overlapping the music. But before she could run back inside, she spotted something she hadn’t noticed before. Upon her head sat a broken halo, like a circlet of pale moonlight filtered down through the branches of a nude tree; that single sight tarred her hopes of ever conversing with angels and reminded her of the kind of life she led.
Poignant. This writer here. If you aren’t following you probably should be.