Walked into a bar

The clock shows ten to eleven; on my way to the bar with the giant guitar, the deafening music drowns out what a girl with gray eyes is saying to me—she looks cheerful, as if she’s celebrating something.

"We’re getting married tomorrow,"

she shouts, hooking her pinky finger with mine.

There’s no contest. I’m helpless; I feel completely exposed before such beauty.

"My name is Paty Lizardhard,"

she shouts, never losing her smile.

"Saulos Santos,"

I reply, unable to tear my gaze away from her.

She probably wants to sell me something, I think, as I lean in to whisper in her ear.

"What’s this about? Are you a friend of Vicenta’s?"

She smiles and leans close to my ear.

"I don’t know who Vicenta is. I just want to have a few beers with someone who isn't looking for sex. You know, it’s hard for a pretty girl to find real friends."

Her comment amused me; I played along and ended up drinking with her all night, celebrating her birthday. Since drinks here are paid for as soon as they’re served, I made sure the rounds kept coming and ordered some dinner, too.

The following week, I went back to the bar to see if I could find her. This time, I wore my Oxford gray jacket to make a better impression, but no matter how hard I looked, I couldn't find her—until, against all odds, I thought I heard her voice. Sure enough, she was whispering into the ear of a guy wearing a cowboy hat.

"Hi, my name is Paty Lizardhard; it’s my birthday today."

I ordered another beer for my solitary table. Oh well—last week, I was the lucky one.