At the next bar, which had a lot of Poles there and this central bar and pink neon and mirrors on a lot of the walls and a pool table, I sat down, and thought I recognized this brunette woman towards the door.
“Excuse me,” I was like, “But weren’t you at the last bar?”
It turns out that she was, and she was waiting for her boyfriend to show up, and we just started chatting.
I told her my bullshit story of why I was in the neighborhood, that I had to return a hand blender to a friend and this was the only time I could do it, and since I was out this way I took a little bit of a further ride on my bike and decided to check out some bars.
(I always have to have a story like that; it’s to disarm suspicions, and it does.)
She was saying that she cleans bars for a living and drinks too much, but it’s a nice life, since you can get fucked up and then you go clean the bars at 2am when you have a nice buzz on, but if you have to clean a bar that closes at 4am, that kind of sucks, since you’re already getting tired and hungry and just want to go home to go to sleep.
She also was asking me how old she looked, and when I said 36, she was like, “God bless you!”, and told me that she was 46.
“No shit,” I was like, “Don’t say that, people will think you’re lying.”
“That’s right!”, she was like, “I’m actually 56!”, and she laughed hard and slapped my arm.
Later, her boyfriend came in, the older (white) guy with a goatee and an oxygen tank. He was very suspicious of me, so I kind of drank up and got ready to go, though the woman kept laughing and saying how much she loved me to him and anyone who would listen.
When I got up, she pushed her chair back, and his oxygen tank got knocked over, and the next thing I know, she was throwing her hands up in the air and was all like, “It’s gonna blow, it’s gonna blow!”, and laughing uproariously.
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