“You have to be aggressive.” I realized this as I eyed the skinny blonde bartender with the skin-tight black pants and matching leather corset; she was scurrying behind the bar like a harried bee in her long rectangular hive. Nope. . . resting my elbow on the bar with my profile to the bar was not the way to get a drink. I watched in growing agitation as the lovely creature flitted from customer to customer, engaging those on either side of me. Her flowing hair slid along her shoulders as she moved; her forced smile of perfect white teeth, engaged her customers. I ducked my head nervously and ran my hand through my short, messy hair. Then, with a quick glance down at my green sweater, I pulled my jacket closed tightly across my small breasts.
The crowd here was dispersing, but my drink hand was still empty. The time was now. I squared to face the bartender and assertively learned over the bar. She snapped to attention, her eyes locked with mine. Sliding in place in front of me, she asked: “What’ll you have?”