Bar

The Sailor and I are sitting in a cramped bar eating mediocre Mexican food and watching poker. Between my constant and annoying poker questions and his insistence that, although he says he knows everything, he knows nothing about Texas Hold'em poker and has no idea what it means to "check" or why they keep thumping on the table two men start talking behind us.

"Hey quitters can't be choosers."
"Man, I bet he does beg."
"Huh"
"Beggers can't be choosers right."
"Yeah that's what I said. But man is she ugly."
"She's a'ight."
"No you didn't really see her. She was ugly."
"But hey if she wants to give him her digits..."
"Dude, I got a pocketful of digits that night, none of 'em looked like that."

I'm piqued, but not yet drawn. I haven't turned around yet, still fixated on torturing my poor husband with his lack of card knowledge. I am just about to bless him with my fried-chicken style poker wisdom

"Honey you need to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to..."

"Yeah she's pregnant."

*perk*

"He is so screwed."
"He's moving to Las Vegas. You can't hold us down."

My genetic predisposition toward gossip and my well-honed skill of poking my nose in where it don't belong kicks in and I have to abandon poker to listen to these two gentlemen continue on with their stories of threesomes, granting multiples to particularly deserving girls, the hot chick who danced with guy #2 last night a myriad of other salacious details in their high-rolling, pimp-style life. I still haven't turned around...but one of the guys barstools is sliding into my butt. It must be a good barstool. I feel blessed. I'm certain these men, by the stories they tell, must be hotter than hot. One of them is latin, I'm sure of it, multiple guy is latin. I know they are dressed like the guys from "Swingers" in those linen and silk swing/bowling style shirts with silhouettes of beautiful women that pale in comparison with the vixen I know they slept with last night. They are tall, dark, handsome. Chiseled chins and bulging biceps that make their sleeves just tight enough. They don't carry their money in a wallet, they have money clips, made of gold, the same color as their credit card. One of them, the multiple guy, is wearing loose fitting silk pants over his brown Italian leather shoes. His companion is doing the tight, but fitted, jean thing with a pair of oh-so-delicious black Kenneth Cole sneakers, with white stitching. They are drinking scotch, on the rocks. I can tell all this from the barstool being pushed back into me.

They are standing up.

They are walking around me, towards the door.

They are two short, skinny, white guys with beer bellies. One is wearing a button down red shirt tucked way-too-far into his way-too-tight jeans, with a brown belt and white sneakers. The other is in a black wife-beater, with a baseball cap, and shorts, with wicker shoes. Both have too much hair gel...all over their neck. They leave their budlight bottles on the bar with a fifty cent tip.

My eyes leave my two amazing potential playas dejectedly and fall on a woman who is sitting at the bar breast-feeding her very, very tiny 2 month old.

Then I remember I live in Maryland. *sigh*

I turn to my sailor and put his cigarette out for him while I point to the baby. He doesn't mind and he stands up to give me a kiss and go outside to start another one. I watch him walk out, decked out in his button-down, stripped, swinger style shirt, his biceps just big enough to make the sleeves deliciously tight. I tilt my head to watch his tight butt move in his nice khaki pants, ending in the new pair of Kenneth Cole brown leather sneakers.

Then I remember I live in Maryland because of him.