“Now,” she says to Rick, “go on.”
She leads the other three away, and my shot arrives.
I down it without prompting, and Rick starts again.
“I don’t know,” he says. “This is kind of uncomfortable.”
It is uncomfortable, very uncomfortable, but I haven’t really had a man talk to me in so long that I tell him to, “Keep going.”
He sighs. “Well,” he says, “your hair reminds me of picking up chestnuts when I was a kid. I know that sounds weird, but—”
“It’s okay,” I smile. “Go on.”
“Your eyes,” he says, “I don’t know, they’re like, really blue.”
Okay, so he’s no poet.
“One more over here!” I call to the bartender.
The barkeep brings me another shot and I down it.
Bourbon just might be my drink. I haven’t felt the need to vomit once.
“Go ahead,” I say.
“This is too weird,” he says. “We just met, and I’m sitting here going on like I’m Wilhelm Shakespeare.”
“You’re really not,” I tell him.
Really, he’s not. “Wilhelm” Shakespeare would probably know his own name.
“Why don’t we just sit here and talk,” I say. “Where are you from?”
After the initial fear, pity, and revulsion, Rick and I actually start to hit it off.
He’s into foreign films, I’m into foreign films. Of course, he’s more Godzilla and kung fu while I’m more Amélie and 8 ½, but it’s something. He likes horse racing, and I like horses running free without someone kicking them to make them go faster.
All right, so it’s not a match made in Elysium, but I guess I could see myself spending a little time with him. Probably not more than the hour Annabeth suggested, but I’ve got to get back into the swing of things one way or another.
After I’ve had drink number four, I’m starting to feel tipsy again and decide that if I’m going to make a move, I’d better do it before I’m too drunk to remember anything, so I put my hand on his thigh.
His eyes grow wide and he stares at my hand as if it’s some alien object, the likes of which he’s never encountered before, and I ask, “Would you like to get out of here and go somewhere we can,” I blow a strand of hair out of my face, trying to come off coquettish, but landing somewhere closer to clumsy, “talk?”
“Sure,” he says, far too eagerly, and he’s off his stool, walking toward the door before I’ve really given a serious thought to standing.
You would think that someone in finance would have a little more poise, or some sort of—what’s the word?—instinct, but this is my frog. I’m not expecting a prince.
Do I really want to sleep with a man that I’m not attracted to, though? If I wanted to do that, I’d see what Dane was up to. At least I know he’s been with a woman before.
I cringe and wait to see if Rick comes back, but he’s out the door and hailing a cab.
He must be waiting for me, and I don’t want to be rude, so I think I’ll just go out there and tell him—and now he’s getting in a cab and the cab is pulling away from the curb.
Well, there’s half an hour of my life wasted. I guess, on the bright side, I could have wasted what I’m sure wouldn’t be more than another three and a half minutes with him and then another hour, clutching my knees and rocking back and forth in the shower.
I look out on the dance floor and spot Annabeth.
She’s grinding with her three finance goblins. Best not to disturb whatever strange ritual this is, but I really don’t want to leave here empty-handed.