So I am at the Local Dive Bar with the b.h. We have come to see our friend D's band play. I do not frequent the LDB. In fact, I have really only gone there to see D play, or when I haven't finished drinking for the night and everything else closes. There is a reason for this.
The b.h. and I approach the bar at an open space between two filthy biker types in leather and a scary toothless old man. The b.h. pulls money from his wallet and turns to me to give me some.
"In case you need one later without me."
I thank him and give him an order for Switchback, which is the only beer in the LDB that is even close to palatable for me. The b.h. turns back to face the bartender, and as he places the order, the Leatherclad Biker Guy nearest me turns and looks me up and down from his bar stool, leaning back and nearly falling off of it.
"Hi," he slurred in what I assume was his sexiest pick-up tone.

"Hi" I deadpanned, not turning to face him.

"I'm Randy," he slurred, thrusting his hand toward me.

"Hi Randy" I deadpanned again. I looked down at his filthy, outstretched hand, wondering how many times he had used the bathroom since he had last washed it.

"Forgive me if I don't shake hands."

I was so proud of myself for finally remembering to use that line. Tombstone, aka the Best Movie Ever (aside from Brazil, The Accountant, The Future is Unwritten, and all of my other favorite movies) was released seventeen years ago. That line was delivered by Val Kilmer in the role of Doc Holliday, then watched (and re-watched, and re-watched ad nauseum), and then it waited in the back of my brain for seventeen years before finally being served up at an appropriate moment. I was nearly giddy.
"That's okay!" he slurred, louder and more animatedly now. "What's your name?"
"Denise," I answered without pause. (This is not my name.)
The b.h., in the meantime, collected our beers, tipped the bartender, and turned to give me my beer without acknowledging any of this conversation. One of the reasons why I love him is that he knows when I can handle a situation and generally lets me, rather than bothering to get involved and winding up in an unnecessary argument with an obvious idiot. We walked away together without another word.
"Nice meeting you Denise!" the guy said cheerily at my back. I wondered briefly exactly what the point was and then forgot about it completely until just now.

It reminded me of a time back in Athens. I was working at yet another dive bar, with my good friend Jared. His girlfriend at the time was A, who has since become a very good friend. On this particular night, A was sitting at the bar by herself having a drink while Jared and I slung drinks to filthy hippies and pool hustlers and the few frat kids who were daring enough to come in. We would each spend some time talking to A when we could, but for a while we were pretty busy and she was left to her own devices (and defenses). It was during this rush that a guy came up and asked if he could sit next to her. There were no other seats at the bar, and A isn't a bitch, so of course she said he could. He ordered a beer from Jared, sat quietly until it was delivered, and then started talking to A.
"You want a drink?"
"No, thanks. I've got one." She gestured at her beer which was three quarters full.

"You wanna dance?"

"No, thanks. I don't dance."

"You wanna play pool?"

"Um, no. I'm really just hanging out."

He paused for a minute or two, looking slowly around the room, and then turned back to her as if another thought had just occurred to him.

"You wanna go to the lake?"

"."