Her name was Gina or Gia. She was in her late 20s, light-skinned African-American, with amber eyes and a short natural that was dyed honey blonde, a hip dresser. She came into the bar almost every night. Sometimes she left with a man, sometimes alone. Mostly with a man. I was a barfly. A fixture. I saw them come, saw them go. One night she sat down next to me and started talking. I could tell right off it wasn't a sexual thing. I was a bar rag--a little soggy, a little dirty, but there when needed. It was early and the place was half empty. I surmised she was bored. I wasn't yet completely drunk so we made chit-chat. Then she abruptly changed course.
"I can tell right away," she said, "if I'm going to sleep with a man."
A shot arrived. I drank it. "Oh really?" I said.
"Yes," she said, "I'll see a guy and can tell if I'm gonna sleep with him right away for if I'll need to get to know him first."
"Okay," I said. There was silence. I really didn't want to hear what she thought of me in that regard. I already knew. Illuminating it would serve no good purpose.
"Now you, for example..." she went on.
I winced.
"I'd REALLY need to get to KNOW you. Like we'd have to go out 20 or 30 times first."
I took a sip of my beer. "I guess that means I won't be needing my opera gloves tonight," I said.
Gina or Gia or whatever didn't answer. The bar door had swung open and a small herd of hipsters shuffled in. She got up and went over to one of the men and started to work her magic. Al, the bartender, came over to me. "Still thirsty?" he said. I nodded.
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