The lights in the bar cast a shadow over the man in a rumpled suit staring down at his melting ice. The glass was as empty as his future and just as cold. Well, he thought, at least he could fix the drink problem, motioning to the bartender to refill his blood-red mixture of vodka and cranberry juice.
He pulled out his credit card and stared at the name embossed in the plastic: George Brown. A plain name for a plain man. George. Even the word sounded more like a curse than a name, followed by a bland unattractive color. Like shit. The way he felt after losing his job of fifteen years and wife of twenty. It had been a bad day.
"Buy a girl a drink?" A seductive voice coming from an equally seductive mouth, whispered in his ear. Twenty-four hours earlier he would have politely refused, but twenty-four hours earlier he had a wife and a good reason. Now, he had neither.
"Sure!" He exclaimed, slightly embarrassed. His voice sounded a bit too appreciative.
George straightened his posture and tried not to be too obvious as he lightly combed his fingers through his disheveled thick - also brown- hair.
"My usual, Bob." She told the bartender, who had begun mixing her Vodka Collins as soon as he saw her enter the bar.
"I usually buy my own drinks," she said, " But it's a good opening line and you looked as if you needed someone to talk to. My name is Sandra."
She held out a perfectly manicured hand which was attached to an equally perfect figure draped in a silk beige pants suit. The pleasure of her company was well worth the price of a drink, George thought, as his eyes soaked in the image which, thankfully, distracted him from his sulking. Her low cut jacket revealed just enough cleavage to be tantalizing but not threatening. Long blonde hair framed elegant features, highlighted by a pair of the most intense blue eyes he had ever seen..
"George," he said through a nervous smile. "George Brown. And yes, it is an old line, but one I'm happy to oblige."
The bartender placed her drink on a coaster and George handed him the plastic card, never taking his eyes from the recipient of his generosity.
Sandra slid the tropical fruit down the shaft of the paper umbrella and brought the juicy red maraschino up to her mouth. As he watched her lips surround the cherry, an unfamiliar sensation stirred in his pants. Damn, it's been a long time.
"You come here often?" He joked.
"That's good. What's your sign?" Her delightful laugh was contagious. He wondered what other delightful sounds would come from her delicate throat if he dared take the clichés in a more intimate direction.
"My sign? Open all night." George joked in response . His hazel eyes emitted a hopeful sparkle. "Would you like to go somewhere and get dinner?" He held his breath.
"I've already eaten dinner..."
