Scene From a Dive Bar

When she was alive, she had always stayed away from these places-- these dive bars filled with drunken men, dirty jokes and raucous laughter.

She had kept to her circle, the one in which people drank sauvignon blanc, pinot noir, cabernet-- and could spell it. 

Now, that she was dead, she preferred the dive bars. These people didn't know who she was. To the men, she was just another blonde in tight jeans and a low-cut top.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror above the bar. She startled herself with her reflection. Was it only a few months ago that she was an assistant D.A. with a promising career? 

A rowdy drunk at the end of the bar was spewing his views about Mexicans. His buddies were chiming in as he continued his rant.

She turned her brown eyes toward him. He was fairly well along in the beer. 

She looked back at the pale blonde in the mirror-- the one who had always gotten an incredible tan each summer. She smiled at her image as she tossed her head and licked her lips before turning back toward the drunk who was still ranting about Mexicans.

She would have to tell him about her grandmother before he slipped under from the blood loss. She would have to whisper some of the words that she had learnt long ago. Perhaps, Vaya con Diablo.