A Bar Joke

it's not funny, why are we laughing?…


It's starts out as a bad joke.

A young man and his fiancé (who he loves, really, ask anyone) walk into a bar. Just a local bar. Nothing special.

The young man (a good guy, really, ask anyone) smiles at his fiancé who smells like vanilla and has these hazel eyes, dark with long lashes, which look up at him like she loves him back.

They look happy, no wait, he means they are. Happy.

(Really, ask anyone who's good at lying.)

Well, they walk into this bar. This ordinary bar.

And at the counter is another man, his glass half empty. Or maybe, half full. And if the young man (this good, respectable man) is asked what this other man looked like he might say something like—

"Blonde. Pretty for a man. Blue eyes."

And these are all perfectly acceptable descriptions. Perfectly true. And maybe, if the young man was a better liar, he would use these words.

But his (perfect, wonderful) fiancé is digging her nails into his skin so deep he can feel her in his bloodstream. It hurts, like a bruise you know is faded but can't bring yourself to press down on.

He's too tired to care right now. So he just doesn't.

Because blue is his favorite color and he hates the smell of vanilla.

(She doesn't know that, she doesn't care.)

So, two liars walk into a bar.

At the counter is another man.

The End

(…because the young man is a liar and this is his story and it's none of your business.)