After only two weeks of dating and we already had a fight. About money. Look, she was the one who drank too much, not me, I was sober. But I had to get her in the car so I put her ass in the car. I have a bandage on my hand because she slammed it in the door, the scratches on my face already healed but I like knowing I'm not the only one with wounds. Bitch.
It is what it is. I step into this tavern I know, looking for happy hour broads that just got off of work. There's an empty seat next to a banging blonde at the bar. Damn. Heels and legs, skirt. Tight turtleneck. Tan.
"Hi there. Do you mind?" I ask her.
"Not at all," she says.
And I know her! And she's a real aggressive one. "Hey, wow, how are you?" I ask. She's a dancer, at least used to be.
"So sorry have we met?" she says.
"Yeah, for sure we have. You used to dance here in Gotham, down by the waterfront, what was the name of that place? . . . Anyway, tell me your name again?"
"Kathlene."
"Colleen! That's right."
"No," she says, "Kath-lene."
"Oh . . . right. Okay, my fault. It's been a few years, for sure. But you, you're still looking fantastic, by the way." I mean, she is a fit woman with a defining shape. Plus, she's writing with a pencil, how hot is that? "And that perfume, I'd never forget you," I tell her. "You really don't remember me?"
"Nope can't say I do." Her glossy lips, they upturn into a smile. "Will it be a problem?"
"Of course not, no-no. I'm a pretty remarkable guy though," I tell her. "I'll jar your memory."
Between perfect teeth the tip of her tongue catches the light.
"Um, you were dancing your way through school, right? Living with your mom, I think. Couple of brothers?"
"No, my stepmom lives in Brooklyn. Nine sisters. I thinks ya got me confused with someone else, Boy-boy."
"Definitely not. Sorry, I'm just hazy on the details. So how are you doing?"
"Good."
. . .
"Can I get you a drink?" I ask her.
"Such a gentleman. One red-headed slut, please."
"Ha! For real?"
"You betcha! I love that deerkiller taste in my mouth."
Okay, this bitch is funny. I order her drink, and a beer for me.
"Wutcha do to your hand there?" she says. "Hit the table on the upstroke?"
"That how you imagine it?" I ask her. She wants me.
"Only if it's true, Cutie." Her stare holds fast, hypnotic blue eyes. I look away, slyly. There's something about this woman.
"I got into a fistfight," I tell her. "I had to throw some punches."
"Really? How did he fair?"
"I did some damage, let's say that." Of course it seems like I hit somebody. And it's a good look on me, I can tell she likes it. I flex.
"I just loves me a fighter," she says.
