Occasionally I take a little adult beverage at a local sports bar. With all those screens and the hard surfaces everywhere, an hour or so is about all I can stomach. But it's bright and shiny and happy, and there are a few guys I know with whom to share some male fellowship.
Last Monday saw me breasting the bar for a couple. After a long working weekend I felt the need for a happy hour snort. I'm such a lightweight thesedays, two is about my limit.
What caught my eye was the woman who arrived at the front door with me. She was a forty-something brunette, stylishly dressed in black skirt, knee-boots and what I believe were fishnets. Thinking nothing of it, I joined the lads at the bar to read my newspaper.
After a few minutes a couple of guys to my right noticed the dame. She was sitting at a table away from the bar. Apparently they had previously made her acquaintance, so she joined them. Their intercourse followed a familiar path. They bought her a glass of pinot grigio. They were overly felicitous, hanging on her every word. They both told her of their sad recent and pending divorces. It's the kind of conversation for which bars were invented.
One of the guys left, and the other started a move. It struck me at the time that he thought he thought of this first, but I'm convinced he was wrong. A woman alone at a sports bar at happy hour on a Monday isn't there for basketball. She's there for a different kind of sport; catch and release, maybe, or catch and keep, depending.
How smart though? If you're a woman looking for a man, go where the men are, where the hunting's reliably rich. She might have been a sweet southern belle, but that outfit was the social equivalent of dating camo.
Painting from here [link]
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