The Place, yes, the capitalization is correct, was a college bar. It was almost a cliche with the video games and jukebox and pool tables and dartboards and loud music. The only thing that kept it from full cliche status was the music which was not quite as loud as in the college bars that catered to a younger crowd. The Place was where the seniors and graduate students congregated. Places like the End Zone or Last Chance were for the younger crowd.
Even in this relatively mature crowd, she stood out when she came in.
I was alone, the fellow-veteran of the female persuasion with whom I had a maybe-date hadn't shown, and had been thinking about heading home and, yuck, studying on a Friday night.
I couldn't help but think of that old Jim Croce song about the Roller Derby Queen ("I had just got ready to get my hat when she caught my eye and I put it back") when she walked in.
The front door was about 20 feet from where I sat, so I could see her clearly, and she was worth seeing. I guessed her at 50, plus or minus 2 years. She was best described as "attractive" rather than "cute" or "pretty." The thing that caught my eye first was the crown of that wonderful silver/grey hair, that color so many women pay a lot of money to achieve, and few ever do. She was overdressed for this place in moderately high heels, nylons, a dark pencil skirt, a blouse, and a short jacket. She looked like she had just come from the office which, as it turned out, she had.
She stopped in the front door, framed nicely, and I thought deliberately, so I hopped off my stool and went over to her.
"Welcome," I said, making an expansive bowing gesture, sweeping my arm in an invitation, "to The Place. If you are not lost I would love to buy you a welcoming drink." All in all, I thought it was a pretty good off-the-cuff speech.
She smiled and I liked her smile. No tooth bleaching for her. Ivory teeth, with one incisor pointing slightly out of line keeping her from being truly pretty but still very attractive. Up close I revised my age estimate up a tick. Her makeup was excellent, but those little tells - that bit of sag under the chin, the darkness of the veins along the top of her hand, those tiny wrinkles in the softness under her eyes - don't lie. I had once spent a summer working with some carnival folks (friends of my alcoholic mother's) and one of the things I had learned was to operate the "Guess Your Age" booth.
None of which made her any less attractive. Her eyes were wide-set and so dark brown they were almost black. Her nose was small, with one of those little round knobs on the end. Her lips were full (I suspected a botox injection almost worn off now). Small ears and a round chin completed the picture. Well, and that wonderful cap of silver-grey hair of course.
That inspection took much less time to do than to say or write.
"I'm not lost and I think I'd like that," she said, and I liked her voice too. It was low for a woman, kind of gravelly. Think Peri Gilpin, the woman who played Roz on the "Frasier" sitcom or, even better, June Allyson or Barbara Stanwyck from the old movies I like.
My luck was with me and I spotted a booth open so I led her to it.
"And what would you like?" I asked.
She smiled and said, "a screwdriver I think. A double." She reached into her purse but I held up my hand.
I got her drink, and a fresh beer for me, and sat across from her.
"Dave," I said, reaching across the table, "graduate student, history major, economics minor, Air Force veteran, and all-around nice guy. Now you know all about me."
She smiled again, took my hand, and said, "Laura, urologist, cougar, and now YOU know all about ME." I liked her hand too. It was big for a woman, almost the size of mine, with a firm grip and, not quite calluses, but not soft either. Her nails were polished in a clear polish and cut short.
"Urologist, huh," I said, "gonna give me a prostate exam?" in one of my attempts at humor that sometimes work and sometimes fall flat.
She grinned then, what I came to think of as The GRIN. It was all teeth, no eyes, and made you think of a wolf or, well, okay, a cougar.
"If I do," she said, "you'll enjoy it."
The GRIN faded to a smile and she lifted her glass in an across-the-table toast. "Gotcha, didn't I?" she said, looking kind of smug.
I chuckled, returned the toast, and said, "touche'."
We talked through three rounds. Well, we talked and we played darts. I liked that she kicked off her heels to play. I beat her, but she gave a good game. It wasn't her first time at a dartboard.
As I drained the last of my third beer, feeling a definite buzz, I caught her looking at me in what can only be called a "speculative" way.
"What?" I asked, feeling slightly off-balance.
"Just deciding," she said.
"Deciding?" I replied. Okay, sometimes I'm not the rapier wit I like to think I am.
"Yes, David," she said, "deciding if I want to take you home or not."
"Oh," I said, feeling completely at a loss for words for the first time in years.
She nodded, just a little nod of her head, and said, "I think I will," and stood up and started for the door.
When I didn't move for a second she stopped, turned, and said, not yelling but in a voice that carried, "Shit or get off the pot, David."
I chuckled and got off the pot.
There was The GRIN again and I knew, on some level, that I had lost a round in a game in which I wasn't sure of the rules.
I had expected her to call an Uber but instead, she led me down the street to a parking lot.
I had expected her key fob to make a Lincoln or a Cadillac or maybe a minivan to chirp in response but instead, it was a Dodge Challenger resplendent in the hood scoops and a decal proudly announcing "392 Hemi."
"Niiiiiiice," I said, "can I drive it?"
She laughed at that, a throaty sound that I liked, and said, "in your dreams."
So I laughed too and opened the driver's door for her.
We headed north, out of town, into the county subdivisions where single houses sat on large lots. I was not surprised.
The house she pulled into was a large ranch-style, with an attached two-car garage, sitting on a lot I estimated at two acres.
"Nice shack," I said and she chuckled, another deep throaty sound I liked.
"I like it," she said, "and the privacy fence means I don't need to worry about a suit when I swim."
By then the car had stopped and I got out and ran around to open her door for her.
"You are a gentleman," she said, "I like that."
"Mom taught me good," I said, doing my best "aw-shucks" accent and making her laugh again.
She smiled and said, "good for her."
She went to the refrigerator, the door from the garage opened into the kitchen, and got out a couple of beers, a foreign brand I didn't recognize.
"Come on then," she said, "let me show you the shack."
I chuckled at her use of my word.
It turned out to be a three-bedroom house with one of those "open" floor plans. The "great room" had a couple of overstuffed recliners, a large couch set in the corner, a wall of shelves, an absolutely huge flat screen (I guessed it at 72") and, be still my beating heart, the latest version of the xBox with a rack of games, controllers, and paraphernalia.
One of the bedrooms was, obviously hers with a king-size, four-poster bed, two giant chests of drawers, an attached bathroom, and a walk-in closet that would have served as a bedroom in many of the places I've lived.