All right β so it's St. Patrick's Day. Just another "amateur night" in the taverns of land. Usually not the time to be out and about. However, my best friend was in town and having just arrived we thought it was a good idea. We started with sushi (an historic event for us since it our favorite mutual repast) and thence off to the wonderful tavern across the street.
This one is not the only one in this little block of heaven but it was the one with the greatest likelihood of allowing us "fogies" in for a drink and to listen to some live music. It was also the place where the younger set (as in just above 21) weren't spilling into the street. Since dinner was late the festivities were fully underway.
We managed to move over to hover above a couple at the bar who were entwined (fully on her part β noticeably "hard-to-get" on his. I'm thinking that if I had some woman who looked like that tonsil-hockeying me and roaming with her hands β the last place I'd want to be at this already relatively late hour is sitting on a barstool. I mean the music was good but NO ONE is that good. To each their own I suppose. Well, whether it was a matter of intense mental projection or simple fate, the couple did finally decide to make a move. The woman likely having gone to the restroom at least twice during our vigil just to "take the edge off" what was already paramount passion. Good luck to the laddie and hopefully he found the stamina to complete what looked like was going to be all-out passion.
Ensconced on the stools and sipping on the brew the dancing from the various couples and singles showing off with one another provided easy amusement. One group in particular sparked interest. The characterization (and believe me I am really good at this) was that of a group, flock or gaggle of women from out of town visiting the neighborhood and having a night out. There were five in all. The leader of the pack β a woman with "somewhat bitter" written all over her face. Tolerant of the action and likely a somewhat recent victim of some form of mental abuse by one of my gender. I hate that this happens. It gives the rest of us a really bad name.
Regardless β cavorting with the dancers was two of this group (both ladies in case that wasn't obvious) who spent a good bit of time dancing with one another. Almost in a form of display for the crowd. Mostly from the one I pegged as "psycho-woman" of the bunch. Her partner, starring as Ginger Rogers to her Fred was a young lady who came to my mind to be known as the Munchkin.
People watching is just no fun at all unless you can make up stories about who these total strangers are and what they are up to.
As the time passed and the dancing continued β PW (psycho-woman) made the most of every song. With increasing frequency dancing with more gender-acceptable partners. My buddy Sean moved off to relieve himself and thus opened the stool we had fought so long for β but in reality only temporarily. I was guarding it carefully. However, when I turned my back to it for just an instant β someone moved onto it. It was the Munchkin.
Compressing the tale for the sake of getting closer to the denouement, she was just looking to take a load off of her feet. The open spot seemed logical and so she sat. As it happens her name was Kim. She was very open to conversation and most revealing about her surface level background and what had brought her to this little hole in the wall in a smallish city by the ocean. And, yes, I was right about the out-of-towner posit. The group had come down for another function, taken a hotel nearby and decided to stay through the evening's festivities rather than move back to their more northerly residences. They'd taken a taxi to the tavern β or close enough to it that they had found it eventually.
As for Kim, my original appraisal and assignation as Munchkin came from her rather diminutive stature. She claims five feet. In my experience that frequently means something less than that but not overly so since there is some pride taken in being REALLY short. Anyway, Kim, the dental hygienist, had been dancing and was in need of rest, which is how she happened onto the stool. The odd thing that struck me first as we conversed was her leaning over close as we talked. Not that the noise level did not require such an action but more from the fact that when she did, every time, her more than ample breast rested on my forearm. As she straightened up again between phrases or sentences, she lifted it off but invariably brushed it against my upper arm a bit.