Mister Gibson

She sat on a high stool in a boisterous bar of clinking glass and the hum of conversation, and of a bad local band butchering cover songs. The place smelled of stale beer and sweat and vomit and urine, which wafted from the bathrooms that never were cleaned. It was a small and dimly lit college dive bar, five blocks from her apartment. She watched a boy she hadn’t seen before, who reminded her of the young man of summer, her man of paisley. She stood and walked to him, and left her drink on the bar. He turned as she approached him, alerted by his friends, and jabbed out his hand and had begun to introduce himself, when she swiftly interrupted him.

“Stop.” She said.