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I bet you thought I meant to say “lies” in the title didn’t you?
As it turns out, if you keep reading,
that might not be such a bad idea.

It’s 11:56 AM on a Sunday morning
and the bartender, cute as can be but many years my junior,
is dressed in a purple flannel shirt and jean shorts.
Her dreadlocks are scrunched atop her head and one of them
protrudes awkwardly, as if defying gravity.

She sings to herself, her lips moving in sync
to the words to some song on the jukebox
that I’ve never heard of.
I place my usual order, a shot and a beer
and she gives me as smile as she makes her pour.

When she is done, she wanders down to the other end of the bar
and commences to start chopping limes.
She works at it as if on a mission.
Slice, chop, and with one quick motion, scrape onto another cutting board.
It isn’t too long before she is standing in front of a mountain of limes.

She looks over in my direction
and I raise two fingers, the international symbol for another round.
She again pours and I notice, for the first time, her eyes.
So blue, I could get lost in them and I wonder
what stories they might tell

I tell myself, go smoke a smoke borgo,
avoid eye contact or conversation for fear of coming across as an old fool.
Back inside, another round and the tab please.
I’ll leave you to your mountain of limes
and the lies that I’ll tell myself when I get home.

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