A Bad Boy in my life

Fitfy

What if I told you I'm not even sleeping
What if I told you I'm not even hanging out
So many people but nobody interests me
I miss you

Sinto sua falta — Ferrugem

POV: MAXON

(45 days later...)

Ball 15 rolled languidly across the lush green table, finding its final destination in one of the side pockets. The burly man with the mustache, gripping the cue stick with an almost statuesque air, observed the ball's journey with meticulous intensity. A triumphant smile spread across his face as his victory was met with disheartened expressions from his pool-playing companions.

Clumsy.

I lit another cigarette, observing the guys rearranging the balls on the table for a second round, as if they never tired of this shit.

"A lone man smoking at a bar is said to be the most dangerous sight," a feminine voice chimed in from close by.

I turned my attention to the voluptuous waitress with a cascade of curly hair, her low-cut black tank top displaying ample cleavage as if it were on display.

She boldly claimed the empty chair beside me, her intimidating gaze seemingly outlined with dark eyeliner. A confident smile graced her lips, almost as if she'd anticipated my response.

"They say nothing is bolder than a bar's waitresses," I retorted nonchalantly, exhaling a plume of smoke into the air.

Her smile wavered momentarily, but her aura of intimidation remained firmly in place.

"Are you the owner of the Kawasaki parked outside the hotel?" she inquired, her words carrying an air of intrigue.

I nodded, a slow confirmation accompanied by a subtle gesture of stubbing out my cigarette.

"It's a handsome bike," she shrugged, her tone nonchalant. "It's intriguing to consider what a man with such a ride is doing at a roadside hotel bar."

Smoking, perhaps?

Her gaze flicked toward the keychain of my bike on the rustic table.

"How cute," she pointed at the keychain. "Your daughter's?"

I chose not to respond, continuing to hold the cigarette between my fingers. Hoping she'd pick up on the fact that she was bothering me.

"Hey, you, kid!" the burly man with the mustache beckoned from the pool table, his cue stick raised. "Join us for a game."

I'd rather face death.

I declined his invitation, gesturing to the cigarette in my hand to imply that I was already occupied.

"Dayane," the man extended his empty beer bottle toward the waitress. "Fetch me another one of these." His accent revealed him to be from Texas, distinctly marking his regional origin.

The wannabe oversexualized Barbie sauntered away from my side to retrieve his beer, and I silently thanked her for her departure.

I scratched my crotch, tilting my head back and exhaling a plume of smoke into the air. This was my fourth cigarette of the night, but at this point... who cared?

As I returned my gaze to its original place, I noticed the plush keychain and let out an inward chuckle.

Your daughter's? I'd prefer to call her my girlfriend.

Shaking my head, I pondered, What could she be doing right now? again. Lately, thoughts of her had become an all-too-frequent occurrence; I really needed to cut it out.