Happy hour

She sits at the bar alone, legs crossed high on a leather stool. One hand circles the stem of her glass while the other slips beneath the hem of her skirt. A slow finger press finds her bare lips already slick. She smiles at nothing, the ice melting, the gin untouched, her wrist working with quiet patience as people pass behind her. The blonde waves of her hair fall forward, hiding the way her mouth parts each time her clit answers. Her thighs tense once, twice, and her hips give the smallest lift against her own palm. She doesn’t rush. Every careful stroke counts the minutes until the room feels too bright and too quiet at once. When her breath catches, she lifts the glass and sips, eyes half-closed, still touching herself like no one can see.