“oh, i’m not good with dairy,” says the girl next to me as she devours a bowl of spinach artichoke dip.
she plopped down onto her bar stool about ten minutes ago and has been chatting nonstop with the guy on the other side of her ever since, except he just got up to get ready for his set, so now she’s turned to me. her eyes eager, her full, braless chest nearing mine.
“that’s a bummer,” i say, shifting in my seat. “i love milk. i’ll probably have a glass of it when i get home.”
i don’t know why she started talking to me, but figure it’s because she saw me watching her shovel chips and dip into her mouth with a curious look on my face.
“yeah, well you’re really pretty,” she says.
i assume she’s telling me i’m pretty in relation to my love of milk, but then she adds, “a person could look beyond you loving milk.”
i must seem confused, because she elaborates, saying, “like, they could let it go,” as if this whole milk thing is a turn-off only excusable by my looks.
i decide to accept it and not ask any questions. a compliment is a compliment.
“thank you,” i say, taking a sip of my wine. i ordered what she ordered. my expectations were low, as they always are at these divey, mid-west bars where the idea of a good grape is obsolete. but, to my surprise, it’s not bad. i wonder if she knows something i don’t. maybe she’s psychic – able to read my mind and tell whether or not a place has good pinot gris.
she says she’s bisexual and i say i’m mostly straight aside from being in love with an older woman named j- and occasionally making out with chicks in college. “the usual,” i say.
she asks if i want to make out.
“you want to make out with a milk drinker?” i respond.
“yeah,” she says, smiling. “i want to see what the hype is all about.”
her spinach artichoke tongue is in my mouth before i know it.
just kidding.
“i’ll think about it,” i say. “i wouldn’t want to upset the love of my life.”
this is a lie. it wouldn’t upset j- in the slightest. i just don’t want to kiss this woman. not here, not now, not ever. she mostly gives me the creeps.
she shrugs, barely disappointed. i wonder who she is and where she came from.
“i’m just coming into town from working up the shore for the last four months,” she says. “i haven’t socialized in a long time.”
“no worries,” i say. “i get it.”
northern minnesota is a bitterly isolating place. i’ve felt a crushing sense of loneliness since arriving here a few months ago. i guess that’s why i come to this sticky-countered tavern every other tuesday for open mic. to get out of the house and see what there is to see. tonight, it’s her.
we sit in silence for a few moments, mostly on account of her devouring a salad, no sprouts.
“i don’t do the sprouts because i’m afraid of e-coli,” she says.
“i feel you,” i say. “i heard the ice machine is a breeding ground for it in most places.”
we both look to the ice machine, then at each other. she shrugs again, takes another bite of salad. dressing oozes around her mouth and down her chin. i’m pretty sure there’s dairy in it.
the guy she was talking to before gets up on stage and plays a mostly bad set of covers. she watches and sways along. the acoustics are horrible, and the place is packed, so she yells as she turns to me and says, “i normally wouldn’t go for a guy like him, but i think i’ll shoot my shot.”
“hope he rocks your world.” i say, signing my tab. “i’m going home to that glass of milk.”
Words 