Twenty-nine thousand steps.
I have been in the bar for two hours counting the steps on my watch, surrounded by purposeful puddles of vomit and accidental spills of liquor on the dancefloor. I haven’t had a drink. Just water, of course. I am just counting my steps.
Twenty-nine thousand four hundred steps.
A woman in a tight red dress, the color of sin, with lips and fingernails to match, tried to approach me. But I didn’t come here to chit chat or drink. I have a wife at home. She spends Saturday nights at home preparing the Sunday sermon for our church after putting the twins to sleep, and I spend them alone in the bar counting my steps.
Thirty-one thousand and six.
My muscle doctor recommended walking to stay fit and strong. I did as he asked. But I got tired of the views and scenery during my walks, so I decided to try this bar where the young and free go. I leave when I reach fifty thousand steps.
I’m a little behind schedule today, because I had to piss when I got here. But usually by the time I reach fifty thousand, bad boy Robin is walking in the door wearing black leather pants painted onto his legs like new skin with a battered leather jacket. He has a face like braille and eyelashes like skinny, wet feathers. And he takes me to his old Volkswagen bus and rewards me with cigarette drags and car sex for reaching my fifty thousand.
Fifty thousand. Done.
Thanks for reading, everyone! This was a short scene I wrote based off of an observation this summer, but a fictionalized version of that man in the bar. I hope you enjoyed it! Be sure to comment your thoughts below, and if you have any funny bar or club stories comment those too! Enjoy the rest of your three-day weekend!