This post was written in response to this week’s Red Writing Hood prompt over at The Red Dress Club. We were told to write about jealousy…this is the fictional piece I came up with!
He smelled like the beach. That salty, Hawaiian Tropic-slathered, sandy smell that is so completely isolated to beach-goers. I wondered if there was a surf board strapped to his Jeep.
I could smell him from across the bar. His nose was pink, his hair windblown. He snorted when he laughed and his voice? Like honey. It oozed sweetness.
I sat there for a good while, wondering what he could possibly see in her. Pretty? Yeah, I’ll give her that much. But there was nothing special about her beauty. She didn’t have my bright eyes, my adorable freckles…there was nothing to set her apart. She was so average. And wearing jeans and a hoodie to a bar like this? If he was mine, I would dress to the nines to look good on his arm.
I couldn’t help but sigh. Such a waste of a man. She didn’t deserve him.
I turned my attention to the bartender. He was jovial enough tonight, but the drinks were a little on the light side. Three Malibu and Sprites and I had barely caught a buzz. If I were to do his job, I would certainly pour with a heavy hand and make my customers happy.
I rolled my eyes, thinking of what a fantastic bartender I would be if I were in his shoes!
He caught my eyes and winked. I wondered how much he made that night in tips. He was pleasant enough, remembered the regular’s names, flirted when he figured it would help.
I could SO do this job! I couldn’t believe the luck of some people. He probably walked in, smiled and was handed the key to the register. He wasn’t a BAD bartender, per say, he was just average. I could do this job so much better. He hardly even wiped down the bar when his drunken customers spilled their drinks.
I left him a $5 tip and left without saying goodbye. It never ceases to amaze me how some people end up with the best jobs and they don’t even care! I could do his job so much better.
Driving home from happy hour, I come to a stop at a red light. I glance to my right and see a woman in a shiny BMW talking on her iPhone5. She is animated, her head bobbing up and down emphatically. I wonder who she’s talking to, what she is talking about. Probably her rich husband…I can see the sparkle of the diamond ring on her perfectly french-manicured hand holding the cell to her ear.
I stare down at my own hands, at my drugstore nail polish chipped, my nails jagged. Well, I could have beautifully manicured hands too if I were to marry some fat, rich bastard like she did. Not everyone is a gold digging bitch like her, some of us actually look for boyfriends based on their personalities, not their bank accounts.
Besides, if I met a guy with money, he would probably just cheat on me and leave me for some woman like her. Fake. Chirpy. Goo-goo eyed over any man driving a Jaguar.
It’s not fair.