She sits at the smoky bar alone by choice. The neon Bud sign casts a blue glow on her face. Her shoulders straight, her elbows slung casually across the back of the barstool.

Jack on the Rocks, Red Sox on the TV.

She isn’t worried about her makeup, because she now knows her smile can startle from across the room.

She isn’t worried about her hair, because she now knows the cascading waves invite to be touched.

She isn’t worried about her clothes, because she now knows it’s better to let others use their minds.

She isn’t worried about her soft curves, because she now knows she is warm and inviting.

She isn’t worried about the sound of her laugh, because she now knows it’s a throaty projection of her joy.

She isn’t worried about not being surrounded by prospects, because she knows you will walk into the bar, be startled by her smile and hear her laugh.

And you wonder what it will look like to remove her clothes.

And you wonder what it will be like to bury your hands in her hair.

And you wonder what it will feel like lose yourself exploring her curves.

And you will start by walking over, and buying her a Jack on the Rocks, and talking about them Red Sox.

She isn’t worried about being thirty one, because she isn’t nineteen anymore.