the secret life of woman

this has been rattling inside my head for a couple of days.


One, two, three. A midori sour. A bud light. A lemonade for the pregnant friend. Ten children between the three women sitting at my table, but those kids are somewhere else. It might be eleven, I can't tell when they think it's life or not. Husbands being stay at home dads, at least for the evening, at least by the look on the rings on their left hands. Another midori sour, sides of ranch for the table. They giggle and smile and swear like sailors. They talk shit about another lady, about an ex husband, about the government. Another midori sour, more bud light. Flirty comments about after work Saturday night plans. Elbow touches and subtle winks. No more drinks, more laughing. Cash on the table and cash in my hand. Back to the car seats and formal living rooms that see no living. Back to families. Back to the responsibility, the doctor visits, the tax man. Back to the medications, back to preschools, back to happiness, of a different kind. The secret life of these women is over for now, an hour or so of distraction left like a french fry in a bucket of ranch. We have more in common than we know.