J. M. Pressley
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I discovered epiphany in a bar. Not the standard epiphany, no, not the usual "I found God alive and well in the bottom of my Tequila shooter" kind that rises much like methane gas seeps up from dying excrement. That's not God; it's a worm. You eat it if you're feeling brave enough, you wonder how it got there, but you don't pronounce it your Lord and Savior.

No, this was as close to genuine epiphany as one gets. As I'll ever get. While staring blearily over the corpses of half a dozen upturned shot glasses, each as sucked dry as I was, I lamented the past—or was it the future? My eyes felt like tallow as I brooded beneath the on-again, off-again sputter of a flickering neon sign. That's when I saw her. Eyes as greedy as mine, roaming me from the waist down and back up again. I shrugged, gestured toward my table, and she sauntered over and sat. Skirt riding up and shirt riding down; she was on display. I noticed she pulled her seat out enough from the table when she sat so as to give me the full shot. Every once in a while, as she was talking about something that slipped right through my head, she'd uncross her legs and satin white would wink at me. Satin white, and she had that particular article riding up like everything else she had on—well, I know it was just my head and all, but I found myself listening to her and imagining at times that she was talking to me through her labia. In a way, she was.

It got bad when I started listening to what I heard through her crotch more than what I heard through her mouth. I'm not sure she noticed anyway, she just kept talking no matter whether or not my eyes seemed glued to her panties and the bifold crease of her labia straining against the satin. Straining. Talking. Watching.

We got down to last call, and she smiled and said she had to leave. She stood, giving her labia a chance to wave farewell on the way up, I stood, and she melted against me for a moment. She gave me a taste of her mouth, all Misty slims and Beefeater gin and lime. And then she left.

It was probably five minutes later when I plunged my hand into my left hip pocket and realized she'd lifted my wallet in the process.

The epiphany was genuine.

© 1996 by J. M. Pressley

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