Dirty

I look around the dark bar, expectant. My body tingles in anticipation of what’s to come. Or, what I hope will come. Early on I learned that nothing is certain. Nothing and no one.

I rub my bare arms which are covered in goosebumps. Why did I wear this sleeveless dress? And why hadn’t I thought to bring a cardigan?

Because I’m stupid. Stupid and vain.

He loves my arms. Thinks their definition is sexy. When he said that, I giggled like a teenager. Nervous. And, I admit, turned on.

The hunky, thirty-something bartender keeps glancing my way. He’s dark and intense looking. What they used to call swarthy.

No doubt, he’s wondering when I’m going to order a real drink. I get it. To some, a woman alone equals “cheap.” In more ways than one. Even now. Some things never change.

Except for me. I’ve changed. Or I wouldn’t be here. Waiting for a man who isn’t my husband. For no other reason than the carnal.

And the fact that there’s something dangerous about him. I caught that right away. As soon as he looked at me with something more akin to a glower than a grin. Maybe a little of both?

Or maybe I’m just a bored, silly woman whose real-life pales in comparison to the conjurings of her over-heated imagination.

Stupidly, and uncharacteristically, I let him fuck me after one-too-many dirty martinis. I defiled my marriage. And now there’s no going back. Once sullied…

Of course, he’s married, too. Or so he says. What is anyone to believe about anything these days?

I brush my fingers across the glossy mahogany bar. This is a nice place. Not a dive. Not the kind of place where people hook up on a look and a prayer. People have to work for it, here.

Thinking this makes me want to laugh out loud. But damn it all to hell, my good humor is squelched when I see the chipped polish on my thumbnail. That’s what I get for trying to save money by “doing it myself.”

I never could give myself a decent manicure. Why did I think now would be a good time to try again?

My hand involuntarily clenches in a fist, my thumb hidden in my palm.

I hope he doesn’t see it. He’s always so pulled-together, and me…

The bartender is making me feel even hinkier than I already do. Quickly, I finish my glass of plain tonic over ice and nod my head.

He’s here before I can dab at my mouth with the skimpy cocktail napkin.

“What can I get you, Miss?”

I lick my lips which have suddenly gone dry.

“Dirty Martini. Tito’s, with three olives, please.”

He nods and scuttles off.

Shit. I meant to ask for stuffed olives.

As he rations out the Tito’s with the precision of a surgeon, I raise my hand, tentatively.

He looks at me with a trace of annoyance that he swiftly conceals.

“Um…I’d like stuffed olives, please. Blue cheese if you have them.”

The bartender thinks I’m a fucking idiot. I can tell. Of course, they have stuffed olives. This is a nice place, after all.

Ah. Here is my cocktail. Shimmering like silver tinsel on a Christmas tree. With three, fat olives impaled on a plastic sword.

As soon as the bartender turns his back on me I greedily pull an olive off its skewer and pop it in my mouth. Mmmmmm.

I sip my drink. Perfection. There’s nothing like that first salty, tangy hit. Umami in a glass.

I realize I’m hungry. For a second, I regret that this isn’t the type of place where they put bowls of peanuts on the bar for just anyone to dip their unsanitary fingers in.

Peanuts.

I’m reminded that I haven’t eaten all day save for the few peanuts I squelched from the stash I keep for the squirrels. They’ve come to depend on me for their daily treat, a realization that leaves me feeling oddly guilty.

What if something was to happen to me? Who would feed them?

As I take a long, silky sip of my cocktail, I realize how inane that sounds.

What time is it? Where is he?

Anyway, my husband might feed them. He’s a good man who loves animals. Of course, he’ll do it. And he knows where I keep the peanuts. I think.

It occurs to me that I didn’t see my favorite squirrel today. The one with the white tummy. Maybe he had a date.

This makes me laugh out loud and the few people scattered around the bar look at me.

I genteelly cough into my hand, hiding my smile.

Then…oh fuck these people! Who the fuck do they think they are, anyway?

“Slow down,” I think. “Don’t drink so fast.”

And then I order another.

An empty stomach and oceans of vodka. A recipe for disaster.

I’m ready.

So I pick at the chipped polish on my thumbnail and wait.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. She is currently pitching her newest screenplay, “The Month We Fell Apart,” a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story, as well as “DEAD TIRED,” a female-driven, ass-kicking thriller.