Girls Night Out

At first I only saw two. They walked in, cautiously; eyes glazed over, slowly panning the room, clearly looking for another person. They explained their story in an excited panic to the closest employee. Was it their first time going out to a restaurant? One made a move towards the bar. She stopped. No one in her group followed after her first two steps. She doubled back, said something quickly, then shepherded a herd of friends over to the bar. They took up space discussing their past decade of exploits. No one looked at a menu, sign, drink list or ordered anything for three to five minutes. The incessant talking over one another dried their mouths out, eventually forcing them to make a decision. 

The first one ordered a water (with lemon if the restaurant had those). The next four ordered the same glass of wine instead of the bottle. The next two order mojitos (or another fruit/vegetable-infused drink that required at least seven steps to make). The last one asked the bartender six to seven questions about various alcohols, then specialty drinks, asked if she could invent something, then settled on raspberry stoli, sprite, and a splash of cranberry. 

When presented with the bill, they asked for separate checks. They each paid with a credit card. They discussed how to tip while leaving a trail of paper, gum-filled napkins, fruit, straws, and the potpourri of designer perfume in their wake. 

At the other end of the bar, a few women sat, eyeing the night's offerings. One sipped dark booze on the rocks; another, a dirty martini. The last one: a glass of white wine. The took turns slightly shaking their heads, an occasional "tssk" coming from the group. 

A bachelorette party came bursting through the door. The bride-to-be wore an inflatable headband, complete with a giant penis protruding from her forehead, making her look like some neo-unicorn-centaur creature. 

I finished my beer and left. I had to find another bar.