This is not the first time I've come to this bar after a long week's work and not the first time I've seen this woman here.
She seems out of place, a bit older than the regular nouveau professionals, dresses simply, classically, and mostly sits alone in a corner booth drinking something deep amber, no ice. And out of all the flirty young women that litter the tables and flit around searching for a man to take them home and make them rich, she's the one that sticks in my head. Strange.
And yet, logical. I've grown tired of empty-headed affairs and girls that try too hard to say yes only to move on without warning or reason. It's as if we've lost all sense of reality, though we do come here to escape. But somehow, we never land firmly again. All I feel is deflated. Empty.
I face this woman who's got no business here and wonder why she comes so often. Are we so shallow we're just entertainment to her? Tight clothing and lip gloss with no substance.
She doesn't belong to that club. Yet, she is attractive. But it's a different kind of beauty. One that sticks. Refined. Subtle.
I call the bartender over. He's a gruff sort, the owner, I think, and probably more gruff since this is only Friday and it's a long weekend of slinging drinks for an impatient crowd. I order my regular—which he knows—and whatever that woman is drinking to send over. I'm not subtle, I realize, regretting my decision.
The bartender slides the drinks over. "Take it yourself," he says. Hers is whiskey too, neat, but a whole lot more than the single ounce I get.
I give him a puzzled look.
"Listen, you don't want what she's offering. But at least your generosity will impress her enough that she'll leave you be." He stands back. "Don't let the quick rejection go to your head."
I'm not sure what he means by all this, but I carry both drinks over to her booth and set hers down. She looks up at me, stern, and I begin to regret my decision.
"Just enjoy," I say and head off.
"Not so fast."
I stop and she's pointing to the seat across from hers. So I sit. Surprised. Elated?
"What's wrong?" she says. "These girls not pretty enough?"
I don't know what to say to that. They are pretty. And available, often, at least for a night. They know love is not in the cards, just a quick shuffle of the deck to distract from the pressures of trading millions of dollars every day. None of it is our money. We just play with it, try to do well so our bonuses are big enough to pay for the racy cars and sexy electronic gadgets we all want. And a vacation to somewhere warm to beat the winter blahs.
"They burn you out?" she says.
I shrug, shake my head. "I'm just tired."
"Bored?"
"You got me."
"Too bad, a man of your age. You could have your pick."
Does that mean she likes me? I'm still here, not rejected: a good sign. "They don't know what they want," I say. I'm not sure I do either. "So what's the solution?"
She slides her empty glass over to the edge of the table and takes the one I brought, tastes. "Am I that solution?"
"You're different," I say, wondering what to say that doesn't offend her.
"Old?"
Thirty-five, or whatever she really is, isn't exactly old. "Experienced." I shake my head. "Constant. Dependable, maybe. I'm actually not sure. But you feel right, somehow. I guess I'm looking for more than..." I don't know. "Sometimes getting what you want should be rewarding, not just a quick yes and off we go."
She laughs. It's the first time I've seen her laugh. I take it as a plus.
"I don't think you want me hanging around after the glow wears off," she says.
She's looking right at me, through me. She's just dared me to go for it. I think. Then again, maybe she's had a bad experience and rather not relive it for my sake. "I'm sorry I asked."
"Are you asking?"
"I suppose so, in a way."
"To relieve the boredom."
She's already done that. A girl I haven't seen before walks by. She's tall and lithe, a dancer maybe, and knows she's attractive and sexy and turns heads.
"Does she make you hard?" she says.
I shrug. But only to give me time to process the boldness of it. I'm not sure how to follow that. I'm used to direct statements. You get laid if you ask. Or are asked. But this isn't about us.
She leans forward, stares into my eyes. "Don't be shy; does she make you hard?"
Okay, I'll bite. But her tone's a lot harder than my cock. "Yes, she makes me hard."
She smiles. Warmly. Totally changed in an instant. "Good," she says, and leans back. "I thought for a second your equipment wasn't working."
"It works. But sometimes the rush you thought you saw turns out...stagnant."
She nods, slowly, turning her whiskey in her fingers, glancing to me, to the crowd, then back to me and holds. "What if I asked you over to my place?"
