Wearing a sun dress and heels, the woman glanced around the bar then sat next to Patti and me.
A blind date awaited.
Patti’s ensuing expression reminded me of my father’s when he hooked a bass. If the fish had any size, or fight, Dad might even offer an, “Oh, man!”
My wife went with a simple “thank you” for effectively giving her a front row seat for Eavesdrop Heaven. Were this desert, Bobby Flay would have called it decadent.
I remained quiet, working on my French Dip and sipping a Fat Tire. Patti feigned nonchalance to disguise the fact her antennae were engaged. She had entered a zone. The great ones don’t miss a word. Can you say Radar O’Reilly?
“High maintenance” registered in my mind when the woman ordered a Brandy Alexander. The beverage choice wasn’t the problem. However, instructing the bartender on the proper way to make the drink raised a red flag. Her grating, nasal tone that rattled the room.
Rocking back with cocktail in hand, HIGH MAINTENANCE called a friend on her cell phone, spilling the beans about how she had met her blind date on line. Apparently the music for this Internet tango had played on for over a year. Now he finally wanted to get together. “He’s late forties,” she said. “Has no idea how old I am.”
Despite HIGH MAINTENANCE’S efforts to remain toned and tanned, I estimated she had lived in parts of at least six, maybe seven decades, leaving her better suited for the dim lighting of Happy Hour rather than the mid-day bright.
Once BLIND DATE arrived, I saw Custer poking along toward Little Big Horn twirling his golden locks and thinking of the 7th Calvary’s No. 1 ranking in the latest polls.
Talk about a trap game!
After exchanging pleasantries, HIGH MAINTENANCE began to probe.
“You feel bad? Were you out late last night?” she asked,