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Hunt for Lonely Girls

Prose Poetry

Let it Rain by Pretty Little Thing

Have you seen them? The Lonely Girls? And the boys who get tangled up in them? I’ve never seen how it starts, but I’ve seen how it ends.

They come back to the bar that they met. He orders a light beer and she orders a glass of red (she doesn’t care what kind), but never takes a sip. Instead she traces her finger round the rim, making him writhe with the squeaking of the glass beneath her force. She won’t listen to a thing he says, not because she doesn’t care, but because she’s somewhere much more important. He tries to make her laugh. She smiles, that’s all though. He won’t notice that she hasn’t looked him in the eye all night and continues to talk until she’s got the nerve to interrupt—his face falls into his lap. Something like I’m not sure what I want. Maybe we should take a step back. I think we should just be friends.

Yes, I’m certain that’s what she says, but really, she wants to say she feels lonelier with him than before she ever had him. He accuses her of fooling around with that all too good to be true type that made her laugh twice at a bar, not too different from this one. They aren’t really together in that way, and I think that’s why she smirks underneath a shade of Lady Danger. She doesn’t reach a hand, doesn’t touch his shoulder, but lends her eyes, while her bleeding heart drips off the counter and onto the vinyl- until he calls her a floozy. Well, he uses a different word, but I’d never say that about a lady. He is fearful of his own design, and she places the glass of wine in front of him, straightening herself seven-feet tall. His anger will crumble under the weight of her last goodbye and tells him sincerely that she hopes he finds what he’s looking for. The five seconds it takes for her to grab her beige peacoat (now stained) and walk out the door is so ingrained in his mind that he finds himself chasing her ghost in the subway, the park, and her favorite restaurant, but never actually catches a glimpse of her passing by him with vague recognition.

She exits the bar at 11:51 PM, although this part doesn’t translate to everyone. Usually, it’s before the buses stop. Nine minutes before a new day where maybe they had a chance, he’ll think, eyes welling in the face of her unmarked glass. She leaves him to his own devices and Lord knows the only thing worse than a Lonely Girl—no, a woman who’s decided to be lonely—is a Lonely Boy.

Photo by Osman Rana on Unsplash

Read next: Abusive Man
Lexys Quinn
Lexys Quinn

Creative writer, social worker, psychology student, scientific editor, and research assistant

Advocate for the Oxford Comma

Instagram: seamsoflexys

Blog: Seams of My Stocking

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Hunt for Lonely Girls
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