Saturday's Storyteller: "I've never been sure of pants."
by Belinda Roddie
"I've never been sure of pants," quipped the old man wearing a green kilt, his fingers collecting the icy condensation of his whiskey glass. "Never been fond of them, either. I like the breeze around my thighs these days. Beats the heat, makes me feel pretty."
He went back to drinking his scotch like what he had said was equivalent to talking about the weather, or the latest football match - as if it had been a matter-of-fact statement that everyone needed to be familiar with. The bartender, petite and red-haired and freckled, ducked down under the counter and came back up with a bottle of butterscotch schnapps. Though I assume half the reason she disappeared was so the kilt man couldn't hear her laugh.
It was eleven forty-seven PM on a Sunday night, and the tavern was still open for another hour or so. Ainsley, halfway to spending the next morning on the couch with an ice pack against her skull, was finishing her fourth pint of stout and scouring her jacket for her credit card. She did not try to pay attention to the man wearing the kilt, who had now decided that people should become even more aware of the benefits of donning his garment. She finally fished out the plastic bugger just as the pretty bartender walked over to grab it.
"Need a ride home?" the bartender trilled.
Ainsley shook her head. Her shaggy bangs flopped around as she did so, and she scratched the back of her neck where her pixie cut was now beginning to show unwanted fuzz. "Nah," she mumbled. "I'll walk."
And she did try to walk, but she only succeeded in catching the cuff of her pant leg against a knob on the stool, nearly toppling face first onto the carpet. As the bartender giggled, the kilt man raised his glass.
"See, lass," he crooned. "that's why you don't wear pants."
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
"I've never been sure of pants," quipped the old man wearing a green kilt, his fingers collecting the icy condensation of his whiskey glass. "Never been fond of them, either. I like the breeze around my thighs these days. Beats the heat, makes me feel pretty."
He went back to drinking his scotch like what he had said was equivalent to talking about the weather, or the latest football match - as if it had been a matter-of-fact statement that everyone needed to be familiar with. The bartender, petite and red-haired and freckled, ducked down under the counter and came back up with a bottle of butterscotch schnapps. Though I assume half the reason she disappeared was so the kilt man couldn't hear her laugh.
It was eleven forty-seven PM on a Sunday night, and the tavern was still open for another hour or so. Ainsley, halfway to spending the next morning on the couch with an ice pack against her skull, was finishing her fourth pint of stout and scouring her jacket for her credit card. She did not try to pay attention to the man wearing the kilt, who had now decided that people should become even more aware of the benefits of donning his garment. She finally fished out the plastic bugger just as the pretty bartender walked over to grab it.
"Need a ride home?" the bartender trilled.
Ainsley shook her head. Her shaggy bangs flopped around as she did so, and she scratched the back of her neck where her pixie cut was now beginning to show unwanted fuzz. "Nah," she mumbled. "I'll walk."
And she did try to walk, but she only succeeded in catching the cuff of her pant leg against a knob on the stool, nearly toppling face first onto the carpet. As the bartender giggled, the kilt man raised his glass.
"See, lass," he crooned. "that's why you don't wear pants."
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
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