Last Call

I came to my senses in a run-down, two bit bar on the outside of some forgotten town. My tumbler of scotch was sweating like a politician in the hot seat. As I looked around the dingy dive, the smell of a hundred years of mold and mildew crowded my senses. Neon signs, half-lit, were the only source of illumination available. It was then I noticed her noticing me. She slid my way in a dress tighter than the Pope's purse strings. Casual conversation gave way to proposals. I declined. She said, "oh, you're one of those." I guess she was referring to a romantic, poet, believer of love. I was. She told me there's no such thing as love. It's as much a fantasy as dragons and unicorns. If it ever existed, it perished with other fantastical myths. She promised she could act like she cared for me if I gave her $200. I had already been suckered into that gig three times. Again, I declined. She disappeared into the shadows as quickly as she had arrived. Fuck her. Fuck them. Fuck them all. They all tell lies to try and fulfill my fantasy. Never again.
I fell back into my melancholy state of drinking. Amber promises. Liquid love. No expectations. A strange echo reverberated in the darkness, "last call!"