Not Tonight

"I'll have a Dos Equis and a shot of Grand Marnier."

Sip one, gulp the other. Waves of warmth. Your cheeks flush. Fingers, once stiff and cold, are now hot and nimble. Eyes flicker around the bar. Glass chandeliers hover. He says they look like upside-down bouquets.

***

"Two more, baby."

Slip off your barstool to find the bathroom. Push through the stall door, unzipping. Sit. Cleavage check. Bikini line inspection. Flush. Ice-cold water and rose-scented soap.

***

"Sure, yeah, another round."

Go outside. (Alone. He doesn't smoke.) Light up, look back through the window. He's tall, sexy, smart. No reason not to go home with him.

Except that tonight you just don't feel like it. He catches your eyes in a quick stare. He looks like a photograph; centered through the window frame, perched on his barstool, glass in hand, smiling.

That's what it is. Too perfect.

No rough edges.

No twists and turns.

***

I don't like them crazy. Just a little bit wicked.