"I'm a freelance journalist."
"Freelance journalist? What does that entail?" I asked intrigued.
"Lots of traveling and a knack for being able to dig out the truth. I've been fortunate enough to be able to pick my assignments," he answered, turning on his barstool to face me. His knees knocked against mine, which my body was keenly aware of as our legs settled, intimately touching each other. "I'm actually on my way to my next assignment. What about you?"
"Right now, I'm working at Smith's General Store over on the corner of Main and Stetson," I answered defensively, waiting for his judgments. I didn't bother to mention the barely dried ink on my B.A. in Human Psychology, or the fact that up until four months ago, I had been planning my internship at the local hospital back home. Those were need-to-know facts that he didn't need to know.
"I think I met the owner when I arrived today. Fran, right? She's quite an old card," he replied warmly, surprising me.
"Yeah, she is. Don't let her age fool you. She's sharper than people a quarter of her age. That store has been in her family for more than a hundred years. Each generation it's passed down to the next. Fran should have passed it down like fifteen years ago, but she claims hell will freeze over before she allows her 'sniveling, no-good, lazy nephew to run it into the ground.' She says she reckons she'll stay until she breathes her last breath or her nephew finally decides to man up. She says she won't be holding her breath on the latter…" I rambled on. Obviously, the multiple shots had turned my tongue into a nonstop chattering mess.
"That sounds like the person I met," he said, chuckling softly. "So, have you lived here all your life?" he asked as Joe set another round in front of us.
Running my finger around the small base of the shot glass, I weighed his question, contemplating how I wanted to answer. "No. I moved here four months ago after my dad died," I lied, giving him the standard answer I'd given everyone else when I moved to town.
"Really?" he asked, studying me critically.
I was slightly taken aback by his response. I'd been greeted with nothing but sympathy when I'd let the lie slip on previous occasions. I always felt a twinge of guilt over it, but knew in the end it was necessary. "It was quite sudden," I answered defensively.
"I'm sorry for your loss," he replied, finally offering up the words that I had grown accustomed to hearing.
"Thanks," I said, not sure if his sympathy was genuine. Maybe he really was some psycho who traveled through small towns collecting heads and storing them in his trunk. I sucked down the contents of my glass once again. My brain was teetering on the edge of remaining focused on the noticeably rock-hard pecs beneath his shirt and becoming drowned by the liquor party that was flowing through my bloodstream. My tongue became numb while the buzzing in my head intensified, making me wish I could rest it on the bar. I contemplated climbing up on the bar so I could lie down, but even that seemed like way too much work. Instead, I tried to focus on my last coherent thought, knowing it had something to do with my head.
"Are you going to put your trunk in my head?" I asked, finally able to make my tongue work.
"Excuse me?" he asked amused.
"Wait. I mean, are you going to put your trunk in me?" I asked, though the question still seemed slightly off.
"Is that what the kids are calling it now?" he asked with open amusement.
"Wait. What did I say?" I asked, shaking my head in a feeble attempt to clear it.
"Well, darling, you asked if I was going to stick my trunk in you. Is that an invitation?"
"Well, shit. I meant, are you going to put my head in your trunk?" I asked slowly, making sure the word placement was correct.
"Just your head?"
"Unless you keep the whole body, but won't your trunk get full if you keep the whole body?" I reasoned, pleased that I was able to form a coherent question even if it was related to my decapitation.
"I'm more a breast kind of guy," he said, smirking.
Laughter bubbled up out of me. "So, your trunk is full of boobies?" I asked, giggling uncontrollably.
"Boobies?" he snorted. "I haven't heard that word in like twenty years."
"Twenty years? How old are you?" I asked, giggling again at the idea that my one-night stand would be with an old man.
"Twenty-nine. What about you?"
"Twenty-nine? That's not old."
"Who said I was old?"
"Didn't you?" I asked confused over why I had thought he was old.
"I only said I haven't heard them called 'boobies' in twenty years. It's actually closer to sixteen years to be precise."