Many thanks to neuroparenthetical, who edited this story.

I sit in a booth off to the side of the bar. Across the table, a stranger drinks his beer without saying a word.

The bar is cloaked in semi-darkness, lit only by the glow of liquor signs behind the counter and a few dim green neon lights. A couple of ceiling fans rotate lazily overhead — more for show than comfort, since the air conditioning is on. The air is cold and damp, heavy with the scent of beer, trash, toilet, and disinfectant.

A dozen or so working-class types linger in the place at this hour — burly and skinny, tall and short, dressed in jeans, shirts, tank tops, and worn jackets. Their hair is greasy, their faces unshaven. A ripe stench rises from their armpits — sharp and pissy enough to knock you out cold.

My girlfriend perches high on a barstool, leaning forward over the counter. Her pale, exposed back catches what light there is — and every passing glance. She’s wearing a matching set: a micro-skirt and a backless halter top, both cut from glittery, silvery fabric. The outfit clings tight, barely covering her breasts or her arched, pushed-out ass — and not covering anything else at all.

She’s turned slightly to one side, chatting with a tall, burly man in his thirties. Black hair spills from his open shirt and mats his thick, muscular arms.

The man slips a hand inside her top. I can’t see it, but I imagine it’s large and rough, with thick fingers tufted with hair. He grabs her pierced, soft nipple between them and twists. She laughs — pleasantly, lusciously — and leans forward to whisper something in his ear. I can guess what it is: her nipples aren’t the only parts of her body that are pierced.

He laughs loudly and vulgarly with his mouth wide open. Maybe it’s just the light, but his teeth look yellow, and I imagine his breath smells unpleasant.