“Just Don’t Strip With Your Sneakers On, Guy”

[Writing Prompt: ekphrastic and timed; time limit = 15 minutes]

“How’s the baklava?”

He shoots me a surprised look. “You know to ask.”

“I know my baklava.”

The proprietor closes in to block off the other barflies. “Order it next time. This batch…?” He shakes his head.

I order a burger, a good burger, as I rarely keep red meat in my house. The order comes, and I ask for tzatziki sauce on the side.

Tzatziki. Boston lettuce. Tomato slice. Scrape the O rings off. 1/4 pound of beef, large slice of feta, more tzatziki, close with the bun. Flip over for good luck. I invented that, I don’t know when, but it’s just something I do. Bury my knife into the middle to part my feast and…

Solid. Grey. LUMP.

My eyes slit.

“I know I ordered medium rare.” It was supposed to be delivered with concern, but instead, dripped with acid.

The keeper, the trainer, the new cook, everyone’s in disarray then in a hurry. I backpedal my statement, realizing it’s become an issue. Before I could finish explaining myself, the new burger is in front of me, the house cook, doing me the favor of meticulously dressing my burger the way I just had that pile of dog food.

Sorry. It’s just that ‘well done’ makes no fuckin’ sense to me. You gonna eat meat? Get some blood in ya.

I carve in, the juices flow, all is well in the land of The Burg.

Other than the petite woman breathing down my neck as she read the beer menu board, I enjoyed my company. On moments when I teetered back to breathe and let my gullet expand, I joined in on the surrounding conversation, the latest concern from the proprietor being his current roommate situation. I dive back in. The guys around me and in the kitchen comment, “She’s really putting it away!” “She’s not playing around!” “I thought she was kidding!”

“Fellas, fellas,” I lean back as one sliver of 1/2 pound burger awaits its demise, “don’t let the small frame fool ya. I’m here for a slayin’.” I hoark the final piece down to emphasize I mean business.

“Ready for dessert? Other than the baklava?”

“I absolutely would. But I have a technical error.”

“Too full from the burger and fries?”

“Not at all. I’m wearing tight pants. There’s no more give!”

Everyone laughs. He goes back down the bar.

“Is this The Dynamics?” the guy sipping on pinot noir asks. The proprietor checks Pandora. Yes, it is.

“That’s an amazing cover.”

I agree as I finish my Lehnenkugel. “That is an amazing cover.” The White Stripes’ Seven Nation Army.

They go back to the roommate issue. “If I don’t get someone to move in, I’m gonna have to get another job,” he laments.

Pinot Noir suggests, “There’s always stripping.”

“Yeah,” he laughs “there’s always stripping.”

“Just do me a favor,” I insist as I slide my bar stool back, descend from my seat, and hoist my purse onto my shoulder. “Don’t strip with sneakers on. It is just so unsexy.”

At first I get several pairs of weird looks, and then, once the thought has soaked in, laughter.

“Til next time, fellas.”