Basic Bitch

When I walked into the neighborhood bar,
I could tell it was basic.
The bass of the music was sonic and heavy in my ears.
The smell of stale cigarettes clinched my nostrils.
A smokiness soaked in the aroma of fried chicken.
Smoke rising, layers floating, moving across the dimly lit bar
In slow waves like water.

Basic Bar.

Women wore cheap clothes and even cheaper perfume.
Hoping to catch fine men with less emotional problems than their own.
Showing just enough cleavage and leg to reel him in,
Knowing full well, but not accepting
That when nothing's left to the imagination
He'll get his fill and soon be... gone.

Basic bitches in a basic bar.

And I instinctively knew this bar, this basic bar, didn’t carry the five hundred dollar bottle of oak aged African Syrah that I kept stocked in the cold recesses of my wine cellar.
I couldn't order my favorite Cabernet Franc or Barbarossa Grenache
Or any of my favorite wines.

Basic bars didn't carry wines that were hard to pronounce.

I take a seat on a squeaky stool at the bar and order a glass of White Zinfadel.
I swirled the golden liquid in the glass, sniffed it's faint aroma
I sipped and pretended it was smooth and savory.

Basic wine.

A gentleman, a brother sitting on the barstool next to me stared and watched as I assessed the wine.

"Only a Basic Bitch orders a White Zinfandel at the bar," he says.

He threw his head back and laughed.
His afro was flat, in need of a good stiff pick.
He himself was in need a hard swift kick.

"I may be a bitch," I said. "But I'm not basic."

Bitch never basic.

He glanced at his friend and uttered

“Basic Bitch”

He turned his attention back to me,
His bloodshot eyes said “I could get you, but you’re not good enough.”
I winked, took another small sip of my white Z,
I snapped my fingers to the the music
I slid off the barstool
Walked up to him and said
“Man, I just bought property, the entire corner of this block –
The Laundromat, the brownstones, the corner store, the pizza parlor

This Basic Bar

And the barstool holding up your basic ass

For the cool price of three million dollars."

He looked at me.
Eyes wide
Speechless.
His friend chuckled.
I sipped more of my wine and sat the unfinished glass on the bar
Along with a hundred dollar bill to cover the cost.

“Now you tell me, brother” I said.

Who’s Basic now?
And who’s the bitch?

Writing prompt: "Only a basic bitch orders white zinfandel at the bar" and "I may be a bitch, but I'm not basic." Taken from tweets on twitter. (initial time alloted: 10 minutes, revision 15 minutes)