Venus on the Rocks

At the bar sits a Neanderthal drinking Snapple and Bacardi 151. She is the only unattended girl at the room, and I think, Fuck what everybody else wants. I want a girl with big ears and a hairlip and pudgy arms and freckles and big teeth. And a quartz hand-axe.

The Neanderthal is crying and for a moment I imagine going over, comforting her, marrying her, finding a nice cave somewhere, having kids, growing old. But when I look back and she’s flirting with a new guy. Despite tears, she’s managed to spark off a chunk of obsidian to light his cigarette.  She must either have psychopathic mood swings or such an oddly simian face that I mistake joy for misery.

Or maybe I’m just a lonely drunk idiot.  It doesn’t matter because while I consider that, my cave-girl has slipped out the back and I just fell in love.