A guy walks into a bar. Sees a girl. That’s how this story begins. Ian is not an overly attractive man. Maybe late twenties. Skinny, not tall. He would rate a 5.5 on a good day.
The bar is a small hole in the wall just a few blocks away from where he lives. The girl is sitting on a stool facing the door. Her wild red curls hang untamed around her impish face.
Ian, not a forward guy in most circumstances, approaches the red head. He knew he should just grab a beer, drink alone savoring the silence in the quiet bar and then go home. But he couldn’t.
“What are you drinking?” he enquires.
She looks up at him with moss green eyes that blink crazy like the flashing neon sign in the bar. A mouth too large for her small face was fixed with a delicious cynical smile.
“No thanks,” that sweet mouth declines, “I’m waiting on someone.”
An ashtray to her left was littered with several stubbed out cigarettes. She has been here for a while.
Catching the bartender’s attention, Ian orders a beer on tap and sits a couple stools down from the girl. He sips. She sips. She lights up another cigarette. And after several long minutes he blurts out, “I have to know your name.”
She fixes him with an intense disappointed stare.
“You look too smart to be so cliché.”
“Cliché?” He fires back. “Is it cliché for one person to meet another person and start up a dialogue?”
“No, but it is clique for a guy to try to pick up a girl in a bar. To ask her what she is drinking. Not very original.”
“God, you are beautiful.”
“And you are boring.”
She tosses some money on the bar top to cover her tab, grabs her jacket and heads for the door. Ian downs his beer and chases after the girl that had betwixt him. He is too late. She has already vanished into the crowded street.
He runs his fingers through his raven black hair. “Shit,” he curses, remembering he forgot to pay the bar man for his beer. He walks back inside to give the man some money, and starts his three block walk home. Head down, feet scuffing along, he is oblivious to the passing people on the street.
Reaching his destination, he climbs the five flights of stairs to his apartment. He puts the key in the door and with a jiggle of the handle and a twist, he pushes it open. And there she is, the crazy eyed, red haired witch from the bar, lounging naked on the couch. Drawing on the end of a cigarette with her thick luscious mouth. The smoke circling over her head like a halo, but she is no angel.
“Hello Moriene,” Ian says, closing the door behind him.
Rising up from the couch to take him into her arms, into her, she says, “Hello husband. Same bar next week?”