• Jean Abney was a woman of no caliber—unless one considered an ability of holding alcohol a notable talent. On a certain Friday night, Jean was sitting at the bar of her favorite restaurant, The Pink Flamingo, pushing the half-empty pint glass back and forth between her hands. Normally, Jean made herself up on nights like these, but she was a stranger to the regulars who usually hit on her…excluding the bartender, who would sneak concerned glances every once and awhile. Her brunette hair was greasy at the roots and the strands limp, lifeless. Her skin, though still flawless, was ghostly pale. She was garbed in torn up sweatpants and a mustard-stained t-shirt. Jean’s eyes, typically such a brilliant blue, were swarming with salt water. She bit her lip with teeth that appeared not to have been brushed in days.

    The door chimed and Robbie, her ex boyfriend, and his loud, already drunk buddies plopped down at the bar, next to Jean. She hid her face behind a sheet of hair.

    Robbie chugged down shot glasses for some five minutes before he finally recognized her. He stared at her for a moment, his nose wrinkled, before he blurted out: “holy s**t, Jean, what happened to you?” His friends leaned back in their stools, and began laughing hysterically, then debated vociferously on whether or not Robbie had been the cause of her pathetic state.

    Jean ignored them and continued to push the glass back and forth, back and forth. The sound of its rhythmic sliding soothed her, blocked out their idiocy. Although, before she knew it, tears had overflowed the edges of her puffy red eyes. “Please, someone make them shut up,” she whispered under her breath. Robbie seemed to hear her, but all he did was snigger. ******** college kids, she thought. Why in the world should I, a successful thirty-five year old woman, care what they think? Successful was, of course, stretching it. The only thing she’d ever been successful in was making men of all ages desire her—for sex, never for love. And for that reason, she’d never had any close female friends, other than the circle who dedicated themselves to gossip and beauty products. They, and Jean, were the women others despised for their catty nature, but envied for their beauty and sex life. It’d been the same way in high school. Other women, most loving housewives, pitied her for not growing out of “such devious and self-centered behavior.”

    While brooding and crying quietly, Jean didn’t seem to notice that Robbie and his gang had left, either because they’d succumbed to guilt or the uncomfortable environment Jean had brought upon them. She also didn’t notice the bartender gently taking the glass away.

    “Let’s get you some fresh air, hun,” the bartender suggested, calling over to his coworker to take over for him. He led Jean outside into the crisp country night. It was strangely quiet for a Friday night, even though the town was a small one, miles away from Jean’s inner-city apartment complex. Jean admired the millions of stars speckled in the velvet black sky.

    “Now, you’ve been to this place every TGIF night and I’ve seen you work your magic on those men, and yet I’ve never seen you look so real. It’s an enchanting thing. I think I’ve fallen for you. Want one?” the bartender asked, holding out a cigarette after lighting one of his own. Blushing, Jean accepted. He lit it for her, watched her intently as she took a big drag. “I didn’t know you smoked,” he commented, an eyebrow raised.

    “I used to,” Jean admitted, smiling sadly, “but men don’t like kissing a smoker.”