Her back to my back, to his back, to the mirror.

The rain was forgiving, in the sense that it eventually dried up and faded into a lukewarm sunset. The fat girl’s t-shirt, however, was not. It buckled under her shoulder blades and the lines that filled out her back. Her hair hung limp to the side in a ponytail, little wisps of brown hedging down her neck. The bartender was a playwright in disguise. The fat girl wouldn’t be able to fit into a disguise. I wondered what he wrote about her. We made eye contact just once in the mirror and went on ignoring each other, eying the fat girl for note taking and the like—her back to my back, to his back, to the mirror.

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