No more cocktails

no more cocktails on thursdays, she says, bringing the thin red straw to her glossy lips. she says this because nobody seems to be out. at the first bar, there is the smell of nail polish and vodka. women gather around, and we lean back in the beauty salon chairs. two girls — they don’t look 21, we decide, but then again, neither did we at that age — are sitting a few yards away, with their sneaker-clad feet propped on the table. “will you take a photo of us?” one asks. “i’m here visiting from new york and it’s all about the photos.” after one drink, we go to the second bar, which is darker and emptier than the first. we walk in and right back out. “where is everyone?” i ask. “there is a party and everyone but us was invited,” she says. third time’s a charm, we think, so we go to one last bar. while we are walking down the street, two cars honk. it is sunset boulevard, and we are not those kind of girls. we sit outside under the dark denim night and talk about whatever it is girls talk about.

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