Page 26 of Home Body
“Yeah, me too,” Kenyon said. “Like if we went to pay our bill and it was paid. We’d ask who paid and the bartender would point him out. We’d wave thanks, he’d nod in response, and then we’d smile.”
Bart’s brow furrowed. “I see. That’s very specific. Would you go over to him to say thank you?”
“Sure.” Jessa shrugged.
“Then we’d start to chat and take it from there.”
“I see. What else might a guy do?” he asked. “Say, earlier in the evening if he doesn’t want to wait until you’re leaving.”
“If there’s dancing, he could ask a lady to dance, of course.” Kenyon put out her arms in a dance posture. “But he’d have to smell nice and be a good dancer. That would be romantic.”
“At least a decent dancer. You know, not a total dork.” Jessa did a comical seated facsimile of the jerk, the spastic dance from decades earlier. “Or a fun dancer tearing up the dance floor in a good way.”
“What if there’s no dancing?” Bart asked.
“Well, let’s see.” Kenyon tapped her fingers on the bar. “He could be direct, as long as he does it respectfully.”
Jessa agreed. “Yeah, he could come up to us but not wedge himself in-between us like the dude did. He’d come over to the side and lean in a bit.”
“He’d be polite.” Kenyon lowered her voice. “‘Excuse me, ladies. I’d like to buy you each a drink. Do you mind?”
“If we pointed out we had drinks, he’d offer to pay for what we had.”
“Then he’d ask if he could sit down. If we said no, we came for girl time, he’d wish us well and walk away.”
“If we said yes, he’d sit down, and we’d chat. But he definitely would not interrupt when we’re talking like some men do.”
“Like that dude did. Hey, Bart, you don’t. That’s nice.” Jessa pointed at him with her drink.
“Thanks. I do my best. My mother taught me well. Excuse me.”
He went around the bar to a table of four that had come in and took their drink orders. After he’d made their drinks and served them, he came back.
“Bart, you’re American,” Kenyon noted. “What brought you to Mexico to be a bartender?”
He put up a finger indicating “wait a minute” and went to the end of the bar to pour a beer for a new customer. He returned and said, “Need you ask why I came here? Look at this place. Endless beaches. Fabulous weather.” He pointed at them. “Interesting people. And no snow. That’s a biggy for me. I’m originally from Ohio.”
“Ah, I see,” Kenyon said, nodding. “A scaredy cat who’s afraid of a few little flakes of white stuff.”
He laughed heartily. “Now that you put it that way, yes. A total scaredy cat when it comes to the white stuff. How about you two? What brought you here?”
“Well!” Jessa took her straw out of her drink, sucked out the bottom end, and used it to point at Kenyon. “That’s her story to tell.”
“Oh my. I’m not sure Bart wants to hear my sorry tale of woe.”
“Come on.” He leaned in on his elbows. “Spill. You know my embarrassing story. What’s yours?”
“Oh my, it’s so very much worse than being afraid of snow. In fact, it’s quite pathetic. You see, it was my wedding, which I’ve dubbed a wedding-funeral. It’s too long and sordid and pitiful a story to tell right now,” Kenyon declared, lifting her drink in a salute and draining what little remained in the glass.
“Wow. Sounds absolutely pathetic.” Bart said it with such warmth and humor Kenyon couldn’t help but laugh.
“Well, I think it’s time for us to go,” she said. “Jessa, you ready?”
Having already finished her second strawberry piña colada daiquiri, Jessa hopped off her barstool. “Sure.”
“I’ll buy.” Kenyon slipped a credit card out of her pocket and placed it on the bar. She slid it toward Bart.
He slid it back. “That’s okay, ladies. Drinks on me. You’ve made my day.”
