The smoke caresses his face as he discretely stares down my dress. Those brown puppy dog eyes are full of light and drink. I smile as softly as I can manage, trying desperately not to laugh.
“You’re quite a woman,” He chokes, “Denise.”
I turn my head away just so I can make my hair float as I swiftly turn back, “Thank you, Patrick. That’s quite a compliment.”
He inhales deeply, “But it’s oh so true.”
I giggle. He smiles.
“I can get you another, but I’d rather not leave your side.” He practically purrs into my soft wavy hair. I let him stay close while I play with a few dead ends. “You smell good.”
I chuckle – then giggle – quickly hiding my face in case he noticed the change in tone, “Thank you.”
The bar is dark. The only light comes from candles perched on the small round tables and a few left over Christmas lights that hang overhead. It’s one of the oldest bars in Boston, and I love it because each and every server owns a thick Bostonian accent that can’t be rivaled in any other part of town. It’s also swarming with drunk men in suits falling over their feet to talk with the next beautiful woman who walks through the swinging front doors.
How lucky to be one of those women.
“I am a bit short,” I laugh, really I’m tall, exceptionally tall, though that’s not to what I refer, “Perhaps just one more drink, Patrick? Absence makes the heart grow fonder, does it not.”
I wiggle while I speak and poke him gently in the chest. He grabs my hand and kisses it, “Anything for you my dear.”
The poor man waddles to the bar he’s so soaked in alcohol. Though he’s not the only one – it seems most of the men, at this time of night, are completely out of their minds with liquor. It makes me rather sad to think that it may only be a drunk man who could take me for a beautiful woman.
While Patrick waits at the bar I glance around at a few of the other tables. Several women have made their way to kissing their potentials. A few have got up and left, hurriedly, leaving their counterpart behind. Those lonely men sit dejectedly at their tables spinning whiskey in their glasses.
Patrick returns, quicker than I expected, and places my Horny Bull (tequilla and orange juice) in front of me. He must have seen how all the other couples are getting along much faster than us, because he takes the opportunity to gently pass over and squeeze one of my breasts. It’s lucky for him that I see it, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to feign surprise and interest.
“I liked that too.” He slurs slightly, then takes a drink from his bourbon. “You’re right, going away for a moment and now I want nothing more than to be close to you.”
He leans forward to kiss me, but I move just in time. His lips merely graze my cheek.
Straightening immediately, his eyes roam over my features uncertainly.
I back away. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
Grabbing my Horny Bull I drink it down in one gulp, pick up my Coach purse, and nearly run out the door.
Patrick stares dumbfounded at the swinging door.
He’d be even more dumbfounded if he’d found out my name is Denis. Note for next time: shave.
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