Falling in Love Again: A Valentine's Day Proposal

“Will you be visited by a certain rich suitor this evening,” Regina asks biting a fingernail and leaning against the lockers. It’s a habit she has, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even know she’s doing it. I cringe thinking about the torn skin of her cuticle that’s got to burn when she drops lemons in the shots.

“Stop that,” I scold, and then a slow smile creeps across my face. “And, I’m not sure.”

Thomas is the best part of my evenings. Literally the highlight of my day and especially when I have to work. He likes to do it in public and coming to the bar is his favorite rendezvous. I’d only recently found out who Thomas really was. I thought he was just a nicely dressed guy who hit on me in the bar. It wasn’t until I saw him on Entertainment Tonight, I realized he was a public figure. He puts the D-list brunette to shame and makes my core tremble with anticipation.

I still didn’t quite understand what he was famous for. He’d been the boyfriend on a reality show. The girl was still on the show, but since they had broken up, the paparazzi still followed him individually. Maybe they were hoping they would get back together and romance the shit out of their lives on television. Me, well, I couldn’t bear to watch the old episodes and the look on his face or the way she treated him during that time. It may have been the past, but it still left me feeling burned, even though he wasn’t mine and this is all in fun. Fun is what I remind myself over and over checking my reflection in the mirror. I don’t even watch television that often and I’d gotten roped in.

Regina keeps talking but I ignore most of what she says. “He’s way too hot. I can’t believe you landed Rosa Diaz’s ex-boyfriend.”

“I doubt he wants to be referred to as someone’s ex-boyfriend,” I say and finish up the final touches on my concealer. I turn my head from the left to the right. I’ve managed to cover up some of the redness and thankfully it’s not turning black . . . yet. I toss my makeup back into my locker and slam it shut.

Regina hums, drawing my attention away from the metal door of the locker and my current rent problems.

I look at Regina and can feel the color filling my cheeks. “I do hope he stops by tonight though, my break is coming up.” I fan myself quickly because the blush on my face irritates the swollen ache in my eye.

I’ve never met someone like Thomas. He knows my needs before I do and meets them in such a way that I’m never unsatisfied after we’re together. It’s fantastic every time. It just keeps getting better. He’s so hot and strong and that’s all I can think about for hours and hours after.

When we get back to the bar, George is doing his usual showy tricks, throwing bottles in the air and twirling around. The women eat it up even though he’s one hundred percent gay. He flashes them his award-winning smile, winking at a few and blowing kisses to a few more. He sashays around the bar making me laugh. He’s a tease for sure but as long as they’re tipping well, who am I to complain?

Once I asked if it bothered him that the women thought he was like a huge porterhouse steak they’d love to sink their teeth into. “Honey, for tips I’ll be anything they want me to be,” was his response.

Women can be absolutely fearless when they’re drinking. I can hardly believe some of the things I’ve seen them do. One older lady had about three martinis and slid her panties off to give to him. Another one attempted to give him a lap dance but fell down and sprained her wrist climbing over the bar. There is really nothing that surprises me anymore.

I understand George’s point as I go back out to the bar to smile at the patrons and call them by little pet names like “honey”, “Darlin”, “Sugar” or some other sickeningly sweet name. One day, maybe, I’ll have a real career and won’t have to work so hard. I mean don’t get me wrong, being a bar bitch, something Regina and I affectionately call ourselves, has its perks. I’ve met some amazing people but mixing drinks and dealing with shit like getting socked in the eye gets old really, really quick. Mixing drinks isn’t as easy as a lot of people believe. There’s a lot of skill and concentration that goes into mixing the perfect drink. Sometimes it’s a matter of a cheap tip at the end of a bar tab or several twenties that buy lunch for the rest of the week. Personally, I like to eat lunch and do my best to earn those twenties.

Thomas won’t come up and order a drink. He’ll come in through the back and text me. He knows he’ll be recognized and he doesn’t want me on the cameras since we’re just having fun. Someone gold digging would be offended, but I agree, we’re just having fun, there’s really no need to draw unnecessary attention to whatever it is that we’re doing. I like my life just like it is, thank you very much. Well, for the most part. He might not ever be mine, not in the way conventional relationships work, but for now, I’ll take what he offers and enjoy it.

“I heard a rumor there, love drop,” one of the regulars tells me. I know he works for one of the entertainment networks that deal with celebrity gossip. I’d overheard him trying to impress a girl with his stories of chasing celebrities. I didn’t remember which one, nor did I care as long as he’s not putting Thomas and me in the same gossip column.

“Oh really, a rumor about what?” I ask smiling while cringing on the inside. Love drop? Really? This weasel makes my skin twitch and more than anything, I’d love to sock him in the eye. My hand twitches holding the tall glass for a Tom Collins and arranging my tray for a run out onto the floor. He keeps yammering on and I half-listen. However, the next words out of his mouth give me pause, but only briefly.

“That you’re lapping up some of Diaz’s sloppy seconds.”

I freeze. I can’t deny or acknowledge anything without looking guilty of something. I’m no actress here. I don’t let my face give anything away but my blood turns to ice in my veins. If he even smells a story, he’ll follow me until he catches it. I’ve seen it before when we’ve let celebrities come into the VIP section. The press is ruthless. While I’m sure the press would do nothing but add free publicity to The Spot, I’d rather not have them in my life.

I refuse to engage. This man is as slimy as his hair looks. He wreaks of desperation for a story and way too much aftershave. Well, he won’t get a story from me. Anonymity is where I plan on residing, it’s the only place I can be and keep Thomas in my life.

Careful to keep my face from betraying my irritation, I flash the fake smile I’ve honed to perfection, at him. “Must be thinking about someone else. I don’t know who Diaz is. Don’t know anyone by that name.” I pour him a shot and flash him a wink. “I’m flattered that you think I look like someone important enough to harass, but I’m just a bar bitch.” I flash him a smile biting back the rise of bile in my throat. “Shot’s on me.”

I turn and walk away, leaving him watching after me. Ugh. If someone like that sleaze already suspects that something is going on, how long would it be before others picked up the scent?

The Spot used to be The D-Spot. D means exactly what you’d think of when naming a male strip club. So, occasionally middle-aged women came in looking for a good time. When Maria, our boss, had purchased the strip club, she wanted to keep the name similar so that the previous patrons would still come in. They just would be disappointed that there weren’t any naked men, once they came inside. Her thought process was they would be disappointed, but they’d stay for a drink.

A lot of them stayed for George, who not shockingly, worked at The D-Spot. I am sure that Maria hired him for that reason only and then was thrilled to find out he was an amazing bartender. He was also my neighbor at the apartment complex. He lived a floor above me and had been coming over to watch bad movies and eat popcorn.

I continue to fill drinks, laugh, and occasionally take a shot bought by the customers. I chuckle at their stupid jokes and flirt as if my life depends on it. Because in all actuality, it kind of does. I have to be careful with the shots, they make my face feel numb, but they also make my tongue go loose.

I turn and look back over my shoulder and find the tabloid dude watching my every mood. He’s relentless and obviously not giving up.

Trying to ignore the irritation, I feel flared up inside and I give George a playful swat on the ass. “How’s it hanging buddy?”

“Tired, I have a day job too. I don’t know how much longer I can sling drinks.” He wipes sweat from his forehead and accepts a tip from a pretty older ginger.

I pretend to pout, but then again, the thought of George leaving saddens me. He’s fun to be around and a good friend. Who would I talk with about our goals and dreams between watching fantastic romance movies over and over again if he left and didn’t have time for me?

“Aww, you can’t leave. You’d miss us too much,” I say, giving him a wink.

“If I leave, you won’t have much competition for the tips anymore.” He retorts playfully.