In a stroke of inspiration, she wrote on the napkin handed to her with her drink; the way the ink bled onto the fabric reminded her of how she was left bleeding for dead when he had finally pulled the dagger of truth out from her heart. With every crossed “t” and dotted “I” her hand would smear the partially dried ink resembling how her once perfect and clean world was quickly destroyed by an intruder. The leftover liquid on the bar slowly seeped into the napkin as if it were attempting to erase all that had been written, as if it never happened. Even if the liquid soaked the napkin completely, a big black smudge of ink would remain —no matter how many drinks you’ve had, the memory remains.
Bring me a dream.
Make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen.
Give him two lips like roses and clover
Then tell him that his lonesome nights are over