Drunk

  Her drink sat before her on the table, watered down as she watched the people come and go from the bar. It was a Friday afternoon and the bar had quite a few people stopping by for that after work imbibe.
Her notebook was open, pen laying across a blank page, and she hoped the bustling place would get her creativity flowing again.
So much had happened in the past few years her little, battered soul was barely scooting along at the bottom of the barrel. She was picking herself up pretty good, she thought, but damn it was tough work.
Many had it rougher. So she tried not to think of her situation as terrible. It was just a set back,

Her attention was caught by a woman who had just stumbled from a group by the pool tables. This was someone who was down low, she could tell by the dark circles under her eyes and the worn look on her face.
The woman reached a bar stool and clumsily settled down, yelling out a drink order to the bar tender who was close by. Soon she had, what looked like a shot of whiskey set before her. She slammed it back, slid the back of her hand over her mouth and wiped it off on ratty cut off jean shorts.
Her red cowboy boots had seen better days. Scuffed on the toes to the point where the red was gone and the under material showed. Maybe those scuffs were from lots of dancing or perhaps scuffles while she was drunk.
Her shirt was red and covered in sequins that spelled out something she could not make out.
Blonde hair teased to the max and a lot of makeup to hide those sleepless nights.

She realized as the woman slammed back her second shot, that she could see, that she was not just getting drunk for the hell of it. She's getting drunk to numb the hell out of it.

Those words made it to the page before her. A sadness washed over her as she watched the woman with the chipped red nails and mickey mouse watch on her right arm that this could be anyone at any time.
We all could get side swiped by some tragedy in life and there is no one to shake us out of our own self destruction.
Sometimes we feel like those worn cowboy boots; too scuffed to be presentable but too comfortable to walk around in to get rid of.

She stood, gathering her items and walked slowly from the bar and its quiet, subtle desolation.