So anyhow, on this particular night in question—I think it was in June or July or some other hot month—I was parked on my regular stool in my normal state of religious flux, wearing a pair of blue jeans that could easily stand by themselves, a Steely Dan tour shirt and a light blue work shirt that had been ironed—once, I think, a long time ago—with a “rocks” glass full of Jack in front of me and the Blue Toons playing behind me when I was approached by a tall, brown woman in a short red dress and matching heels so high you’d hurt yourself if you fell off of them. Tall body, short dress—my favorite combination in a woman.
“Buy me a drink?” she asked as she walked
over and stood beside my stool.
I looked her over from top to bottom and
front to back. I spent some extra time in the back. That’s my favorite part. I
didn’t see any evidence that she was carrying a weapon, a summons or a
subpoena, and if she was trying to hide anything on that body—in that dress—she
was doing it all wrong, so I pointed her to the stool adjacent to mine.
“What would you like, Miss…?”
“Farrow. Catalina Farrow,” she said. “Most
people call me Cat.” (I swear to god her voice was so sultry she actually purred.)
“I’ll have a vodka tonic with an extra lime. I like to suck on something when I
drink.”
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