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If I Can’t Have You
The woman of my dreams pulled herself up to the bar a few feet away from me and ordered a beer—no, two beers. A few moments later the front door opened and in came her tall, dark and handsome young boyfriend. He saw my eyes lift up from looking at the thong sticking out of the back of her pants and slid in between her and me making a wall out of his tight fitting ribbed tee-shirt. Used to the defeat, but a bit gloomy from the loss, I scooped up my beer, walked down the length of the bar, past the pool table and to the end of the establishment where the single-toilet pisser was occupied by someone having a coughing fit. I felt defeated again. I then walked a few more feet, past the propped open fire door, into the back alley and pissed on a bicycle owned by some drunk with a DUI.
Returning to my seat at the bar, the woman of my dreams was gone; her boyfriend wasn’t though. I looked at him lugubriously. I thought to myself, “Well, if I can’t have her, maybe I could have him. It’d be like having her but in an indirect sort of way. Whoa!” I caught myself with a start. I rolled my eyes back in my head then gave them a good rub. I pulled my roll out of my pocket and settled up my tab. I wandered home and took a long hot shower hoping to sweat out my loneliness. Later I passed out on the couch and forgot it all.
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