Fail is like foiled but without the comic twist
Yes, Virginia, you used to be able to smoke in bars. Actually, it was a requirement I am certain and everyone knows what a rule follower I am. My dark red, red, red lipstick leaves a stain on everything I put in my mouth. Traces of hope come off on my glass, my smoke, my fork and napkin. Slight traces on cheeks here and there. Bar air mingles with my hairspray, perfume and shampoo that will linger on my pillow case the next morning no matter what pillow I lay my head down on.
I step out into the night and its colder even though I am drunk and thought I wouldn’t want my jacket to walk the 7 blocks through the ghetto back to my car. Mysteriously there is no arm around my shoulder or warm hip pressed up against mine walking out of step but in the same direction.
The god damned float in my gas tank is broken and apparently they have to take the side of the car off to replace the defective thingy so cost over wins the goal of never running out of gas. After opening my car door and rolling down the window, lighting my going home smoke, radio blaring as well as the heater I pull away from the curb trying to remember how many miles I had gone and how much gas I have left in my tank. I gamble the odds and drive home without stopping and park on the hill in front of my house.
I step out of the car alone and look up at the sky thinking that it looks the same kind of dark at 3am as it does at midnight and in the glare of the street lights there are not many stars to see.