“A lilt in my rhyme, thank you very much,” I order, not ask.
“You’ve got it, lady,” the bartender says, and turns his back to me. He commences his current task.
Lady? Lady? I think to myself. I’ve never been called that in my life, at least not that I can recall. Sure, baby, honey, and so forth, but never a full-blown lady.
The bottles and glasses clink and the blender whirls, the cocktail shaker with its ice cubes makes a nice heavy thud all of their own, and I, smiling to myself rest my chin in my hand, looking as pleasant as could be for my first date with What’s-His-Name. These dates are always the same; same formula, same format, just different person, different name. I’d rather a lilt in my rhyme than an extended purr to my name, and by goodness was I going to achieve this wish, one and the same.
He shows in the doorway. My heart beats frantically. This one looks like a catch. My date approaches me with a great air of confidence.
“What are you drinking, my lady?” There’s that word again.
“A lilt in my rhyme, why do you ask?” I reply with a cheeky grin.
“I do like them feisty,” he says, a twinkle present in his eye. And how do you think the night will unwind?
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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