It all started about six weeks ago in the Lonely Sparrow, that little blues bar down on Chapel Street where I usually went after a hard day on the job, or a hard day looking for a job, or a hard day wasting time because I didn’t have a job. I considered the place to be the church of my salvation, being on Chapel Street and all. Whatever the case, I’d find myself at the Sparrow, sitting at the end of the curved, polished, dark walnut bar and asking the lord for deliverance. (My exact words were, “Lourdes, I need another drink. Could you please deliver me the bottle?”)
Lourdes was the bartender, a tasty piece of eye candy with a Philippine ancestry and a shape for Hooters. Half of the people who drank at the Sparrow only went there to gawk at her. Men and women alike gawked at Lourdes, who was a big fan of sex when she wasn’t mixing drinks and wasn’t one to discriminate on the basis of race, religion, gender or national origin. I might have been one of the gawkers, too. You can decide that for yourself after you’ve read a few more pages. I may even have had sex with Lourdes a few times, but I’m not one to kiss and tell…except when I am.
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