There's live music, electric guytards with awkward stage banter. I have the best seat, a booth on a riser. Two beautiful women ask if they can sit, of course, I respond. I'm phone engaged, reading, texting. We all drink. We eventually introduce ourselves, Anna and....um.... Courtney? Wrong. Men are staring at Not Courtney, she's stunning. About 40, long wavy strawberry blonde. Small chest, tall, in a rock t shirt. Men try their luck, approach, leave. Who cares. I hear her name, as Christine peels off her glue on nails. We drink. I mind my own business. She swats away the barflies with grace and patience and smiles. A third pretty woman sits. They're slipping rings off their fingers, about 10, trying them all around. There's no rings on Christine. The band cheers on their buddies in the audience. "Hey, it's Waylund Jennings!" He's a handsome guy, of course he tries his luck, tells me I'm lucky to be seated with beautiful women. It's my table, I offer. He bats zero. Men can't help but stare and try. It's stupid. She has a boy, she tells him to ride his bike, I half hear. Who cares. The nails are goyne, she's thrown them under the table.
Classy. Waylund keeps asking me what his name is. I spell it. He asks more. Loudmouth, I reply. That shuts his yap.
It's four twenty. The loons dive and flounder. I close the bar as our super bartender kicks everyone out. Another night of no consequence, other to remind me of my married life, how being possessive is a constant drain.
It's my table. Take a number, try your luck.
https://www.geni.com/people/William-Jennings/6000000008630921519
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