Gloria

Content warning: Substance abuse, sexual encounter, self-image issues

“Hey, Gloria, last call. You want another?” the bartender glances at the clock and calls out to the woman perched at the end of the bar. Her head swirling in a blue-grey cloud of cigarette smoke as she exhales.

The jukebox crackles with a Laura Branigan tune, “Gloria”; the sound of the '80s echoing in a bar that hasn’t seen a renovation since that time. The dark wood interior, faded beer signs, and outdated light fixtures feel like a specter of a forgotten place.

She looks up and nods, a faint smile pulling at her lips. Her teased, bleached hair sprayed into a silhouette of its former glory, frames a face that bears decades of hard living. Black eyeliner smudged under her faded blue eyes, and her mass of cheap, clunky bracelets jingle as she raises her empty glass.

“Thank you, Alan. Yes, another double vodka,” words slightly slurred and voice gravelly from a lifetime of cigarettes, “and four olives on the side.”

Alan nods, pours her drink. He sets it down in front of her, “You know, you’re gonna eat me out of olives at this rate.”

She laughs—a dry, crackling sound. She places a ten-dollar bill on the bar, “To cover the cost.”

Alan shakes his head with a small smile. “You’re too kind.” And goes back to his closing duties and stocking the bar

Gloria turns her attention to the jukebox, she takes a big swallow of her drink, eats two olives off a plastic sword and gets up. Swaying her hips to the beat as she makes her way over. Her scuffed black pumps click against the sticky floor. “G-L-O-R-I-A!” she belts out off-tune, losing herself in the rhythm. Her favorite song, if only because it shouts her name. 

By the pool table, a group of college guys snicker, clearly tying one on before they start tailgating at the local football game the next day.

One elbows his friend. “Check her out, man. Retro’s back in style.”

“Yeah, in thrift stores,” another chimes in. They collectively chuckle.

Gloria glances over and catches the drift of their laughter but chooses to see it as appreciation. She throws them a sly smile and adjusts her body into what she thinks is a more flattering pose. She briefly catches her reflection in the bar’s smudged mirror—thin legs, a thick belly the result of menopause and heavy drinking, her breasts, more fat than tissue, bulge over the top of her Madonna-styled corset, peeling pleather shoes, and a face she barely recognizes anymore. In her mind, she is still that radiant club girl under neon lights. An up-and-coming model at the best dance clubs, always sought after by the powerful men who would frequent them.

“Careful, boys,” she purrs as she saunters over, large earrings swaying with the motion of her head. “You might just break my heart.”

The boldest of the group leans forward, his grin wide and mocking. “Only if you promise to break mine first.”

Gloria lets out a throaty chuckle, brushing a hand along his sleeve. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m dangerous like that.”

The jeers soften, morphing into a mix of amusement and pity. One of them, wearing a varsity jacket, is shoved forward by his friends. “Go on, man. See if she can break your heart.”

The young man hesitates, then gives her an exaggerated wink, chuckling, “You wanna dance, beautiful?”

Gloria took his hand without a second thought. “Lead the way.”

He takes one last chug of his beer and sets it down on the high-top table with a loud CLUNK. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, and they disappear down the dim hallway toward the restrooms. The laughter from the pool table trails after them, but Gloria ignores it, holding tightly to the illusion.

In the bathroom, she leans against the sink and lights a cigarette she’s pulled from the small purse hanging diagonally across her body. The exhaled smoke curls towards the buzzing fluorescent light. “Do you think I’m pretty?” she asks, her voice softer now, almost fragile. She bites the tip of her polished fingernail and then plucks a piece of tobacco stuck to her tongue.

The young man freezes for a moment, then shrugs, avoiding her eyes. “Yeah, sure. You’re... you’re something all right.”

His words hang in the air mixed with the smoke. She flicks her cigarette into the sink and shortens the distance between them, as he backs into a stall and pulls at his shirt untucking it from his pants.

“Tell me I’m pretty?” Asking more than commanding.

“You’re pretty.” He closes his eyes and leans his head back as she lowers to her knees unzipping his jeans and pulling out his erection.

Afterward, he leaves quickly without saying a word, the door swinging shut behind him.

Gloria stays behind, gripping the edge of the sink. She rinses her mouth, spits and stares at her reflection, wiping away some of the lipstick smudges with a wet napkin. For a fleeting moment, under the hazy light, she sees herself as she used to be: teased hair, smooth skin, dark lips, and a mischievous smile. She applies a fresh layer of lipstick and twirls slowly, humming the chorus of her song under her breath.

You don't have to answer

Leave them hangin' on the line, oh oh oh, calling Gloriaaa…

The vision quickly fades, reality settling back in with cruel clarity. Gloria teases her hair with her fingers and returns to her seat at the bar. The boys at the pool table are already gone. The only proof they were there is a high-top filled with empty beer mugs and the lingering scent of Nautica for Men.

Alan walks over as she finishes the last of her drink and grabs her coat.

“You okay, Gloria?”

Crunching the ice cube in her mouth, “yeah. See you tomorrow, Alan?” she asks, her voice tired.

“Yeah, Gloria. See you tomorrow.” His tone is softer than before.

As the door closes behind her, the jukebox hums to a stop. Silence fills the bar, save for Gloria’s low singing outside.

Are the voices in your head calling, Gloriaaaaa