Trouble

Cheyenne hated when sleep didn’t come. When sleep evaded her she was more prone to trouble. She tried all of the old remedies, a hot shower, a mug of chamomile tea. Nothing worked. She deduced that they were old because of that fact. She started to dress in slacks and a nice white shirt. She considered jewelry, decided she’d just wear her rings, and less is more she reminded herself. Keys in hand she auto pilot drove herself to her favorite lesbian dive bar. If she were looking for trouble she’d find it there. The music was an assault. She almost left on principle. While she waited to pay for entry she scoped her surroundings thinking if everyone looked under aged she’d save herself ten bucks. She spotted someone she was sure she knew. She knew she knew. Remembered vaguely thick thighs clinched around her waist. What she couldn’t remember was her name. She remembered that she was a poet and that it was a stage name she didn't know or remember. She even remembered the venue where she met the beautiful poet, with her beautiful, dirty talking mouth. Her the name would not come, Though she remembered the woman did many times. Her name she could not remember. As she handed over her ten she worked out a strategy. She would walk by the woman’s table headed for the bar and hope that she would interrupt her progress with something cliché like, “Don’t I know you?” She walked by the table like she was on a mission. Like last call had been called but managed to check out the amazing shoes caressing thick ankles. She loved a woman with shoe game, maybe for only a short time, but love was love. As she propped her elbows on the bar she felt, more than heard, someone at her back. That nameless familiar voice delivered as she asked, “ Don’t I know you?” Cheyenne casually looked over her shoulder, smiled. Trouble had been found. And if trouble was still as energetic as she remembered sleep would come soon after trouble did.