We crept eagerly through a narrow graffiti enriched breezeway: back entrances to shops I pass every day, but never enter — they were top lit most exotically and I almost wished to stop. Across the street, we entered a mostly empty bar. The regulars dead-eyed us with annoyance tinged by curiosity. They turned from their drinks for a moment as we paid to enter the all you can drink zone.

I watched the owner’s stocky daughter drown small perfect ice cubes with vodka all the way to the tippity top where there was enough room for a splash of precious cranberry.

Back in the USSR.

Spade is a large fellow. He guzzled his drink — a preemptive strike on the evening. I nursed mine at a mellow pace. Still, a fuzzy feeling jangled in my neck.

We sat outside feeling the lovely breeze on the fine drinking porch. The setting sun flickered off my drinking hand gold wedding band, hitting the Irish green marquee above — just dancing there. Ever since my rugby days, I’ve drunk with my left hand: a custom born out of hospitality…handshaking, blackslapping. And luckily, this giant beacon of marital prosperity shouts down from on high, “taken.” Still, mohawks and wedding bands are sometimes combustible — backfires abound…persist.

The glances amped up as Spade and I shot the shit; a few other friends stopped by to chat and we continued to imbibe. I was staring straight ahead when I noticed a young woman at my side. She was half-standing, leaning on the bar — her dark bust protruded smoothly from her pastel pink dress and her brown eyes stared unwaveringly. Her round, shiny shoulder sported a bandage.

I smiled nervously, “Ah, hello,” I said.

She jumped right into the conversation I’d lost track of without introducing herself. All the while, she continued to eat my face with her big eyes and wide smile. Spade and I excused ourselves for refills. Upon returning, she remained with a new friend in-tow. They spoke rapidly.

“I met a girl inside. Her name is on the ladies stall. All this stuff about a good time. Said she’s proud.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it doesn’t shake her a bit. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend? Wait…you don’t know his…”

She giggled like an awkward young girl and her breasts jiggled in and out of her tight top.

I winced a bit and scratched my head with my left hand as I do in these situations. Her drunk face was vaguely pretty and her smile veered to the left distracting from her bright red hair.

“I’m Sal,” I said.

“Jennifer.” She shook my hand and her smile grew wider — threatening to throw her off balance…maybe onto the beer soaked pavement.

“Rebecca,” stated the staring beauty. She offered her hand and I shook it gently, noting a few abrasions.

I took a high long lefty swig from my pint glass and reclaimed my stool. The conversation had fragmented and now I found myself sequestered.

“You know exactly what that stall is made for…,” said Red.

Rebecca smiled faux sheepishly.

They stared at me like cannibals and again I scratched my head. I tried to change the subject to no avail. So, I forced my way back into Spade’s conversation and laughed far too loudly.

After a few minutes, their sideward glances pulled guilt from my gut.

“What happened?” I asked, pointing the bandage.

“Bike wreck.”

“Second street?”

She nodded astounded.

“Fucking Second Street,” I said.

“Are you really married?” she asked with sad eyes.

“With a wonderful child,” I replied.

“Awwww, I want to be young and married,” she moaned. My arm was in her hands now as she hopped up and down. Her full lips pouted.

She clung to my arm like a terrier; her drinks seemed to be suffering from the same fruit deficiency as my own.

“You are so happy, aren’t you? I want that.”

“Find it,” I said.

I wrested free and joined Spade smoking on the sidewalk. I glanced behind me, flashing a quick peace sign and silently hoped she’d find her pot of gold, but not in the stall.