The loud horns of the Mexican music and raging phosphorescent drinks; my girls my bar. I see the looks. My makeup is probably as unpolished as the flaking skull mural at my back.
“She’s bloody ugly.” One of them says.
An aphorist, I’m actually a ghost. A spinney old apparition who haunts this bar every night. I’m no uglier than most women here, pretty enough for the petit rats that swim to us from their boats.
“She’s mine.” His friend says. He gives me a clinical look that dissects the angles of my body’s fleeting health.
Yo le veo sailor. I see you to. Come on then, don’t withdraw now.
I can see he has paint on his fat hands. I wonder if he’ll paint me after tonight. A portrait with snakes for hair and a bright red kiss on the lips.