But these two guys at the bar, no way they’re family. They look like they just flew in from Boise or Cleveland or something. No way they're connected.
But on the other hand, no way I'm interested in them either. I mean it's early and everything. The cigar club usually closes around eight or nine, whenever people are done and wanting to go home. Sometimes we do stay up, and we’ll stay open as long as there’s somebody there who needs it, but tonight Daddy was done with Stosh by eight.
And so I find myself in a hotel bar downtown, drinking with the early-bird dinner special geriatrics. Great. Just great.
I pick up the paper napkin in front of me and start pinching at the corners, tearing off tiny pieces. In a few moments, I’m completely immersed in the ridiculous task of trying to turn this pointy-cornered napkin into a round-cornered napkin.
The ice in my drink slowly melts, painting the entire surface in translucent fog as I forget to drink because tearing these itty-bitty scraps off this napkin is so enthralling.
Geez. The life of a Mafia Princess. It's not what anyone would have thought, is it?
I ordered a Manhattan because they look so pretty and they sound so glamorous, but this thing is gross. It's got a cherry in it and everything, and it’s still gross. I”m taking tiny sips, trying to get my mouth used to the flavor. It's not really working.
What I really want is a Cosmo, maybe? A margarita? Or wine. I bet they have a great wine list. It's probably not very cool of me to want to order a margarita in the middle of this swanky bar.
The bartender keeps cutting his eyes toward me sideways. I'm not sure if that's because he's waiting for me to finish this drink so I can order another one, or if he’s wondering what kind of idiot tears up a napkin and leaves a little mountain of shredded paper in the middle of one of his nice clean tables. If it were me, at the cigar club, and one of those Russian guys made me a nice volcano out of cigar ash or something, yeah. That would be weird.
Oh great. Now I'm that guy. I’m the weirdo.
So now what am I supposed to do? I take all of the little pieces of paper and pile them up in the middle of the napkin, then fold the bottom up and the top down, and then the sides over to the center. I mash it against my palm to flatten it as much as possible and then leave it in the middle of the table, but it springs back open and a few shreds of red paper puff out. I don't even have to look directly at the bartender to see him shake his head slightly.
Maybe a shot of something? Or a spritzer? A wine spritzer sounds fancy. I should do that.
Or champagne! Okay, there we go. Champagne. How can I go wrong with champagne? I may not be the most sophisticated drinker in the world, but I know a woman sitting around drinking champagne cannot possibly be mistaken for a college kid or a floozy, right?
Just as I'm about to slide out of the booth and make my order, the bartender swings around with a drink in his hand. He lays a new napkin in front of me with a meaningful glance, and places the Manhattan in the middle.
“I thought I would freshen your drink,” he says smoothly.
I smile as enthusiastically as I can. “Oh, thanks,” I say, nodding believably. “I was just about to order another drink.”
"I know,” he says confidently. When my eyebrows pinch together, he adds, “I'm a trained professional.”
I smile and nod, dingbat style. That's always worked for me in the past. I find that generally, men don't expect too much of a girl who's willing to just smile and nod. Most times, it seems to be a sort of relief.
His chest puffs up with pride as he walks away, mission accomplished. Now I don't know what to do. It was nice of him to take my napkin art away and the watery Manhattan, but now I’ve got a fresh one at full strength and everything. Ugh. I have to start all over, and I'm too embarrassed to go up there and ask for something different.
As he takes his place behind the bar again, I see him turn around and cross his arms over his chest so he can watch me. OK, I guess there are actually three men in this bar, counting him. Apparently some sick part of my brain is actually considering this guy, too.
Any port in a storm, I suppose. I'll just wait until closing time before I really make a decision. He looks older. But nice. But... married. He looks completely married. Probably got this job so that he could pick up random women who were only going to be in town for a couple of days. Yuck. I'm not giving it up for somebody like that. I mean yes, I'm on a mission here, but I don’t want to add to my trauma or anything.
Tentatively, I take another sip of the Manhattan, only taking a teeny-weeny bit between my lips. The cherry rolls down the glass and bounces against my teeth. The sweetness there is a relief. I actually just want to eat the cherry, if I’m telling the truth. But it makes the drink a lot easier to take.