“Oh, great. Fucking cut in front of me.”
“I’m sorry–I didn’t see you there.”
“I guess I just blend into the woodwork.”
“Well, actually,” I answered, “I must be losing it if I didn’t see someone as beautiful as you sooner than I did.”
“Look, mister, I’m not some blonde college slut from South Dakota.”
“Nooooo, you’re brunette and look like you come from the big city. Look, I feel bad for cutting in front of you. Let me buy you just this one drink. Come on, it’s a drink, not a date.”
“Bartender. I’d like a glass of Dom Perignon. No, wait (takes a quick look at me). This doesn’t really seem like a champagne kind of town. Better make it a Jack and water.”
“Make that two, please.”
“Not straight up, huh? You always drink girl drinks?”
“It doesn’t have to have very much water but it has to be cold. Slap a tutu on me if that makes me a girl.”
We faded away from the line now forming at the bar, both taking big sips of our drinks. She wasn’t running back to her friends, or boyfriend, or hubby, which started me thinking. Someone I used to work with yelled and waved at me; I waved back and smiled. When I looked back at her, I swear I caught her looking at me.
And there was a slight crack in that frown on her face.
No, it was actually more like a smile.
We sat at an empty table.
We got great service. All night.
That were for the Trifectites. I’m like Picasso in his blue period. That is, there’s things I don’t know about myself. No, I mean I have a period too, my “Tommy James” period. So here’s an over-produced song that I’m not ashamed to say I’ve loved from the beginning to the end of it, since the first time I heard it in 1968. Hot people, I present you with “Crimson and Clover” (whoops, I meant the short version):