Page 2 of The Floral Arrangement

To my relief, the woman didn’t press me further. Instead, she waved down the butch bartender.“I’ll have a double Woodford Reserve, neat, thank you.”

The bartender nodded and turned to me. “And anything for you?”

“Um,” I grabbed the menu, picking the first thing my eyes fell upon. “A negroni, thanks.”

“Good choice.” The woman tilted her head, her eyes lingering on me. “Are you from around here?”

Huh. I hadn’t expected her to keep up the conversation, especially given how lackluster my contributions had been so far. Perhaps she felt sorry for me?

“Um, fairly close.” I wanted to protect my anonymity for the time being. “You?”

She shook her head. “I live in Manhattan. I’m just here visiting my parents and needed… to get out of the house.”

I grimaced. I’d had to move back in with my parents a few times in my twenties, and as much as I loved them, I’d found it a struggle not having my own space. Thank god those days were behind me.

The bartender placed my negroni in front of me, the red liquid lapping against the rim of the glass. “Would you like to start a tab?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll settle this one now.” My wallet was in my coat pocket, so I bent down to unhook my coat, one hand clutching the counter for stability.

“This one’s on me.”

I straightened up just as the woman handed over a fancy-looking Amex to the bartender. “No, that’s okay–”

“To avoid any further head injuries,” the woman said. “I don’t think Brenda wants to have to fill out an incident report.”

“Brenda?” I frowned.

The woman nodded toward the bartender, who was swiping the Amex at the other end of the bar. “Her name is Brenda.”

“Ah. Do you come here often?” I cringed. Could I sound any more clichéd?

“No, just when I’m visiting my parents and need to get my mother off my back. She’ll stop bothering me for the rest of the weekend now that I’ve made an appearance at a queer bar.”

I took a sip of my drink and stared at the woman. I couldn’t quite imagine her having a mother who harassed her into going to a queer bar.

“She’s very eager for me to move here, settle down and have kids.” The woman pursed her mouth.

“Ah, so you’re here looking for a wife?” I asked, a teasing tone to my voice. I twisted on my seat to face her more fully, surprised by my growing comfort.

“Are you volunteering?” She raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth curving up.

I laughed. “I think we should get to know each other first a little, don’t you?” Either this woman’s company was putting me at ease, or the negroni was. Possibly both.

“Probably,” she said. “But before you start planning our wedding, I should let you know it’s only my parents who want me to find a wife. I’m happily single.”

“Damn! I’d already chosen a color scheme,” I said, pouting.

“My bad.” The woman grimaced and took a swig of her whiskey.

I tilted my head. “So you just make an appearance here to appease your mom and then head home?”

She nodded. “I usually nurse a drink at the bar while I do some work and then wait until it’s safe for me to drive home again.”

“That sounds like fun,” I said, the corners of my mouth twitching. “But not tonight?”

Had she changed her usual anti-social routine to speak to me? I edged slightly closer to her on my seat. Over the scent of stale booze and greasy food, I caught a hint of cedar. Was that her? I resisted the urge to lean in farther to find out.

The woman’s blue eyes flickered for a moment, and then she smirked. “No, not tonight. After witnessing your head injury, for medical reasons I thought it was best to strike up a conversation with you, to ensure you remained lucid.”

---