Transitions

"There is something sexy about the way a woman looks in an evening dress," he said, sidling up to her at the bar.

Sarina flipped her hair back over her shoulder and regarded the gentleman. Older, probably mid-40s, salt-and-pepper hair, in decent shape. Stereotypical corporate vice president. She guessed the conversation would turn to his dreams of writing and moving to Hawaii, with the expectation that the night would end in a crumpled heap beneath the sheets in his penthouse. "What's that?"

"I said, there is something sexy about the way a woman looks in an evening dress," he repeated. After a pause, he stuck out his hand. "Mark."

Of course it is, she thought, good, solid overly masculine name. "Sarina. Sarina Carlysle."

"That's a lovely name, Miss Carlysle... it is Miss, isn't it?"

She held up her hand.

His smile filled the typicalness of this back-and-forth. Laugh lines, but good ones. Along the eyes, at the corners of his mouth. Enough to show that he'd lived, but not too many so that he looked old. Sarina wondered where he tanned. It was a good tan job -- a difficult commodity in this city but one that was desperately needed in the midst of the winter. Maybe he had just come back from vacation? No, she figured, the tan had a hint of orange that indicated perhaps a base overlaid by spray. "What brings you to this dump?" Mark pressed, taking the initiative to pull up a faded and torn bar stool next to her. The chair matched the decor -- grimy -- the kind of place that, even though smoking was outlawed years ago, maintained the smell for years in the very pores of the walls.

"Needed a break, and a drink."

"And the evening dress?"

She smacked her lips and set down her drink, tossing her head back slightly and giving an ironic chuckle. "A girl's got to feel pretty." Her eyes moved to his tie. "And the suit?"

Mark gestured for the bartender for a new beer and indicated that her next was him. "A girl's got to feel pretty."

It was enough to make her laugh. At least, she thought, he had a sense of humor.

---

Mark admired Sarina. She was perfect -- blond, big breasts, nice hips, charming, and elegant. And, though the red evening gown suggested a story for the night, she was leaning easily on the dirty bar and ordering whiskey sours. Though a little too frou-frou for his taste, it was not the martini or cosmopolitan he had come to expect out of her type.

The conversation progressed easily. Mild flirtation, interspersed with actual conversation. For every jab he put out, she played on back, and she seemed eager and engaged in his wish to pursue writing and move to Hawaii. Her eyes had glimmered a little when he told her about the book in his head. It was a masterpiece, he felt, and it would revolutionize the world. People would read it for generations. Graciously, she had asked the plot, and he had teased her with silence.

Overall, it had been a good pick up, and one that he was sure would end up in tousled mess back at her place.

He never brought women home. It was too messy in the morning.

Sarina had just finished her third or fourth drink -- to be honest, he had had more than he had expected and had lost count of his tab, so was unaware of just how tipsy he had become. She sighed. "Well, Mark, it is a school night, I must off for the evening."

He glanced at his watch. Shit. It was one a.m. A weekday woman should have taken much less time than this. "Yea." She started to get up. "Hey, you know that place you mentioned earlier... the restaurant?" In truth, he could not remember if she had mentioned a restaurant, or if that was the woman the night before... or was it something he had made up? Memories and conversations were starting to collect and intersect at a point just beyond his grasp.

"McCullough's?"

"Yea..." Thank God. "Yea, that one."

"What about it?"

"Do they serve breakfast?"

She stopped fussing with her purse and looked him dead in his eyes. They were green. Lovely. "Yea, I think so. It's not bad." She threw the strap of her bad over her purse. "Let me just go to the water closet... fix my make-up, you know." She gestured the bartender. "Get him one, on me, darling." The bartender nodded and moved away. Mark suddenly realized they were the only two in the bar, and the man had been hanging by all night. That would explain the alcoholic haze, and the likelihood of a high tab for the evening.

The sounds of heels clicking on the broken hard wood floor followed her away, and he watched as she moved between pool tables to the back of the bar. Click, click, click. Mark had a fantasy of her on the pool table with just the heels. Click, click, click.. clank. The bartender announced the arrival of a fresh beer.

Taking a swig, he tried to return his gaze to Sarina, whom he was sure had just walked into the men's bathroom.

I'm drunk, and he turned back to watch the muted television while he waited.

---

Hm. That was easy, Sarina thought as she touched up her makeup. Idiot. He was lucky she could come up with the name of a restaurant that quickly, else leave him feeling like an idiot. Probably some other woman he had met this week mentioned a restaurant. Idiot. And he was turning out to be such a nice guy, too.

She walked up to the urinal, pulled down the front of her pantyhose, and peed, double checking that the front door was locked. Though she wished she could finish off the surgeries, it was becoming too much fun to see the look on their faces when they realize.

But Mark was nice enough, and, after a few more drinks, he won't care where he was sticking it.