She's living the dream.

I watch as she sips her wine and laughs. I watch her flirt, tossing her blonde hair off her shoulder. She is having the time of her life.

LIVING THE DREAM BY BRANDY MONTILIONE 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 35

As I stand behind the bar looking past the shelves of colored liquor bottles and through the window, I see her walk along the crosswalk heading in my direction, her lips in constant motion keeping the conversation afloat. I shift my position to get a better view of who she is talking to, but she is alone.

She walks through the door and stammers head-heavy over to her favorite table. I greet her with a cocktail napkin and a smile. She orders wine and maybe some bread, and gets back to her conversation, ignoring me only until my services are again needed. I bring her wine and bread, and she thanks me as I turn to leave.

I return to my post behind the bar and observe her. I watch as she sips her wine and laughs and engages in gossip. I watch her flirt with the open space in front of her, tossing her blonde mane off her shoulder and winking at no one. Leaning in to whisper things not meant for anyone else to hear, her fingers delicately gripping her glass, the littlest pointing to the sky. She is having the time of her life as everyone else in the room is having a normal lunch hour on a normal Tuesday afternoon.

I know her only as Susan from across the street. She has been a regular in my bar for years, sitting at the same table and ordering the same glass of house red. Her appearance following suit with her behavior: both being a little unusual. The front portion of her long blonde hair always combed smooth and sprayed perfectly into place, a few curls added around the ends, yet ratted and disheveled in the rear as if there is a constant gust of wind rushing in from behind.

Sometimes she wears a bra and sometimes she chooses to let her ladies flop freely around her belly button, her nipples pressed firmly against the tattered fabric of her stained grey-sweatshirt. Her eyeglasses are thick and always smudged. How she sees through them is a mystery to me.

Years ago Susan would have been considered disrupting to customers who had planned to eat their lunch in peace. She would have been stared at and talked about. People would have pointed and giggled as she sat alone at her table-for-two chatting loudly to an empty seat, responding to inaudible comments coming from nowhere. But not these days, today the patrons assume she is on her phone, the bluetooth earpiece hidden under her thick yellow locks, talking to an old friend or relative, having a delightful conversation; a conversation onlookers may become envious of, making them feel guilty for not keeping in touch, pushing them to reach out and call their loved ones.

Today customers keep to themselves, their faces submerged in the glowing screens of their own phones. Once in a while they succumb to her infectious laughter and they smile, wishing secretly they could listen in on the jubilant banter.