By Karen Walker
In the darkness beneath the table, he creeps knot by knot. Tightrope walks the evening’s web of drink and lies.
But his hairy legs tickle. Damn for being so clumsy and careless. Startle her—cause a shiver or a slap—and he goes home alone, hungry.
In the candlelight above, predator eyes see she’s too far gone to escape.
Fly the bartender knows it, too. He shrugs and buzzes, “Too bad.”
Karen writes short fiction and prose poetry in a basement to avoid making dinner.