The Rival

Five years running Sullivan’s… no problems.
Zero!

Then Tate Morgan shows up next door, and suddenly, I can’t think straight.
She’s a menace and a headache.
Parks wherever she wants.
Butters up to the most unfriendly neighbors on the block, including the f**king stray cat.
Files a complaint against me and frames it where I can see it.
She’s petty.
But, she pisses me off.
She takes up so much real estate in my head, and that pisses me off.
When I ask what business she’s opening, she says it’s ‘just a dive bar’.
Then adds, like mine — like Sullivans?
I don’t think so.
I hate her.
But … my body doesn’t get the memo.
Her legs in those shorts make me grip the bar until my knuckles go white.
I watch her through my window more than I watch my own customers.
In all the ways that matter, Tate is my rival.
But rivals aren’t this obsessive. Are they?
Don’t yearn for glimpses of the other. Do they?
Or get hard at the sight of them.
She’s the bane of my existence.
I just know I’ll never get a good night’s sleep.
As long as she’s around.