It's Not My Fault

It’s always the last one that makes you stay. You’ve got two dollars in your pocket, it’s too early in the morning, and you’ve got work the next day. But you look up, and there she is.

Maybe it’s her face.

Maybe it’s because it reminds you of someone else–somebody from a couple of years ago–or maybe she reminds you of someone you haven’t even met yet.

Whatever the reason is, it doesn’t matter because now she’s twisted your arm so hard that you have to stay. It’s always her fault.

And you say things to yourself. Things like, “Well, maybe just one more drink–payday is tomorrow night after all and it’s not too late.”

And the waitress comes by and you take out that twenty, the one for the cab home, and you order another drink.