“That’s going to be a missed connection,”
you murmured as the guy you’d been flirting with sauntered out of Ritual.
Within minutes—seconds even—you were checking your computer to see if he’d posted.
You: Geriatric Barbie; a leggy blonde with grapefruit boobs, forever legs, Brady Bunch hair and leathery skin.
Him: a miniature Rodin, dark corkscrew curls bouncing in eyes like black olives; a good six inches shorter and twenty years younger than you.
I was the woman sitting beside you at the table, although you barely tossed me a glance after asking if the seat was taken, blue eyes tunneling into your laptop.
Never really looked at me, even after he left, once you started checking to see if he wanted to connect—refresh, refresh, refresh.

Sister Of Chucky by Paul Sapiano