Dolores and the Blond

One hundred and sixteen days...

Dolores sucked on the Budweiser bottle loud and noisy like a starving baby, even dribbling some of the nectar down her chin and onto her turquoise blouse. When she came up for air, she slammed the bottle down and burped triumphantly. Her long fingers, red painted nails with a spot of yellow in the middle (her signature), rose to her lips in an unspoken apology as though she were a countess and committed a faux pas at a state banquet. The twelve old men failed to notice; they feasted on the only other woman at the end of the bar who wavered on her stool with downcast eyes, young and supple, a redhead in the sea of gray, white, or peppered heads.

Quinton, the bartender, took away the spent soldier and a replacement stood at attention on the coaster. "After a month in the joint, you better go slow."

Dolores hesitated. Four weeks ago, the dirty dozen would have tripped over themselves to buy her a drink for a chance at a peck on the cheek or more later in the night when she was too tired or too drunk to care. She dug into the pocket of her jeans. Two crumpled dollars fluttered to the bar as she eyed Quinton. "After a month in the joint, I have a lot of catching up to do." He walked to the end of the bar with her gaze locked on his tight butt. "Yeah, I've got a lot of catching up to do." Dolores had no mind for long-term planning. Revenge suited her better. She milked the second beer for a long time...