@ Spanky’s Pub

She often came into the bar around nine thirty, give or take a few minutes, dressed to the nines in stiletto heels, some type of short, form-hugging skirt, and a barely there blouse. It was almost like she shopped exclusively at Victoria’s Secret, which was just fine by me. I would usually be seated at the far end of the bar, nursing a gin and tonic, my drink of choice on Thursday nights when things were decidedly slow at Spanky’s. In fact, the only real excitement on Thursdays were usually the occasional fight or two — it was in a decidedly seedy part of town — or if Thursday happened to be ladies’ night. As far as I was concerned, it was always ladies’ night when my vision in stilettos strolled in.

Spanky’s was one of those places that always smelled of piss and beer, a tantalizing aroma of scents that brought increased ambiance to its patrons. The barkeep often told anyone who would listen that the bar had been around since prohibition, which of course made no sense, but they all seemed to believe him. It had that timelessness to it that was undeniable. It’s what brought me back every night for a drink or two, that and the possibility that I would see the heavenly vision who only came in at nine thirty, but I never knew which night. It would sometimes be three nights in a row, and sometimes it would be a week between visits. So, I was there every single night, inhaling the scent of fresh piss and beer, at the far end of the bar that had become my home.

And she came in that night, sliding through the door at exactly nine thirty looking more radiant than ever, wearing those black heels at the end of her impossibly long legs. As she passed by the four other bar patrons, their heads swiveled around in her wake like caricatures in a funhouse, their impossibly large eyes following her every move. She pretended not to notice as she came right over to me, almost as if we had made a date. And in a way we had.

She was a dusky brown color, and I imagined I could see every pore of her flawless skin when she sat down next to me on the adjacent bar stool and ordered some type of amber beer, that when it arrived I realized matched her skin tone perfectly. Almost as if she had planned just that effect. A couple of guys were over by the small stage attempting to sing “Free Bird” — it was karaoke night — but I hardly noticed them in my periphery.  I was busy inhaling the sweet scent of something like jasmine or sandalwood emanating from the angel in close proximity to me.

With her left hand she reached for her glass that had already begun to produce condensation near the bottom, leaving a perfect ring imprinted on the cardboard coaster. I noticed a wedding band on her ring finger, and I wondered if she always used her left hand to hold beer mugs. My breath caught in my throat as I wondered if I could go through with what I imagined to be happening between us, that subtle chemistry in the heat between our bodies. I placed two ten dollar bills on the bar next to her hand, nudging them up against her smooth skin, sliding my eyes up to meet hers and nodding slightly. She looked at me over impossibly long eyelashes and nodded in response. And the dance had begun.

Sam