One more glass

Last call. He poured me one anyway, just something to sip while I watched him shut things down. By the second round we stopped pretending. He had me bent over the bar, skirt yanked up, panties shoved to the side, pounding me so hard the stools rattled. Bottle caps rattled across the floor, ice melted in abandoned glasses, and neither of us slowed until my legs were jelly and his knuckles were white gripping my hips. They say one for the road—I walked out with a raw ass, come running down my thigh, and the smell of him still in my hair.