He checked his watch and, then, checked his heart.

He decided to sync them to a countdown--one to imminent rejection.

​It’s a sulking scene, where the battered are brought beers and befriend broken brothers alike to themselves.

It can be a chipper one but only if there are luscious lips and fiery red hair to match the buzzing neon, tipsy tongues blurting a euphoric melody, and pouncing perverts that indulge in every tight buttocks they see.

It’s a sight for sore eyes, or it can be one to make them sore.

However, in this night he will fidget and fumble anxiously through the cell, for any signs that she’ll spare him despair, this night.

Once or twice couldn’t possibly shake any nobleman, but the 6th and 7th will surely take their toll.

Rejection loves to make him question, and he’ll answer his own thoughts with the somewhat soothing suds.

If he asked them why, he’ll be labeled insecure, immature, and less than a man, at best.

So, he’ll wobble, on the way to the jute, and play another Z-Ro and 45 past 7.

He took a devil’s grin at their expression so scrunched, craving their sour moods to accompany his misery.

The grey and scruffy faces with cigarettes lodged to the side make clear of their disapproval of musical his selection.

Their hostility was like his beer--biting and, yet, beneficial in numbing nicely.

Their sultry agreement was seven, but all excitement was fading with along with vision.

And, that broad was a disappointment that’ll sting him come morning.

Will those shoulders strut square again? That verdict must hold.

The Rangers grand slam, on the flat screen, propelled a chunk of his resentment into the stands, momentarily.

And, though sports can sway the mood of any man to jumping idiocy, none could excite like the blurry angel, that stole the flat screen’s attention.

She wasn’t desperate or clinging to any macho figure, like a remora to a shark, and ordered the whole damn number four pizza, to share only with herself.  It’s a questionable turn-on, in which the answer doesn’t matter.

She cheered for the home team with a commanding presence, and only the chug of Bud could taper it.  Those with inadequate pairs stared on but didn’t approach.

And, if fate’s air horn of, “Get off your pathetic ass and go talk to her,” wasn’t enough, the texted lie of, “Can’t come, I’m really busy,” shoved him violently out of his chair to go and introduce himself.

From the Soul,

Published works: https://amzn.to/3gA4Dh3