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Tales from The Port: Rick


He'd become a regular at The Spotted Horse in the three years since his last divorce. He loved the food, but also the vibe. It had become his kitchen where he didn't have to cook or clean. On Wednesdays, he'd sit at the bar and sip on a Tito's on ice and pick at at plate of sweet potato fries while surveying the room for newly divorced women. Wednesdays were when the fresh ones would venture out. It was when their exes had the kids and they could get out with the other late 30s early 40s divorcees. He liked way the new ones looked. Their eyes would get wide with excitement after their second drink kicked in and the edible they ate in the parking lot had made its way into their system. He'd been with over seven in the last two months who still had tan lines where their wedding rings once were. They were hungry and needy for attention in a way he was able to give it to them for a few hours or so. Most of them knew who he was before he even said one word to them. Rick always sat alone to make sure no one would confuse his gaze as being from someone else. He knew he had become a rite of passage; a ship to be sailed to get to the other side. Girlfriends would tilt their heads towards him having tasted themselves on his mouth before, but okay with allowing a hollow and broken friend feel a bit better. Rick felt as if he were providing a service of sorts. One where he helped push out the uncertainty that had grown and stretched on hips and thighs that had birthed children.

It was the accent. It had worked for Rick since he first moved from Birmingham to the States at the age of 23. Of course he had worked on refining it and ridding himself of the common accent of his mother, brothers, and sisters back home. He'd become a student of people and had decided to posh himself up months before he booked his flight knowing that sounding as if he weren't just the son of a lunch lady would get him far in America. He'd been right of course and using his looks, attitude, and the bravado that comes from being the first born, he made his way at a time when starting a company and selling it made him a multimillionaire by 45 with four ex wives and seven children on three continents.

It was also his face and body. The dark hair with a hint of gray at the temples, full lips that made one think of cherries right when they're about the burst between your teeth. Rick had a way he stared at women that he had practiced in the mirror and with sales girls and cleaning ladies over the years. He didn't have to look at his reflection to know that moving his lips together slightly while squinting just a bit would make the right woman practically orgasm on the barstool had she been untouched long enough and drunk with her friends that evening.

Tonight he saw what he wanted and needed to be with. She had been in twice before on a Wednesday with two of her girlfriends from the neighborhood. Rick had been with one of them when he first started coming in, but he wouldn't remember her name and wished that humans could have permanent name tags somewhere to avoid the whole situation. She wore a white blouse and a bra that was too dark to be worn under something so sheer. She had a fresh blowout and he could tell that this was a look that she was just trying out. Her hand was free of the ring that she had worn the weeks before. He could almost smell the hope from across the room.




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