At the AC Bar, I picked out an olive-skinned bartender with beautiful lips and ordered from him one delicious Knob Creek bourbon, please. Just like Michelle taught me, I put a 10-dollar bill on the counter and held onto it with two fingers for a coy 1.5 seconds before I let the cute man pull it away. Then, once he delivered my drink, I rolled with my straw, licked my lips, and made my eyes wide. All the things girls do.
But before my last ice cube melted, the bartender was on his break and some cretin was tossing off lines such as, "Hey babe, come here often?" from the stool on my right. Needless to say, tres gross, Gross, gross, gross. So in an attempt to salvage my evening, if not my self-respect, I tossed my ice cube at the cretin, tracked down the bartender, said something very intelligent ("Hey you're a bartender, aren't you?"), and promptly ran away.
Late at night, back at the hotel. Michelle was off with her Frenchman. I was tossing on the sheets, This was the perfect Harlequin setup for jealousy. She had her man; I had nothing, not even my shells. But I didn't feel like a cat fight. I felt like a victory lap. Like I'd spent the evening with my ex without having a fight or having sex. Like I'd made it out of Betsey Johnson with my credit still intact.
It's a question of temptation. I'd expected to spend the weekend in front of my computer, unloading all the lovely clichéd summer hooha I'd stashed in my brain. Instead, I wound up entangled in summer's sultry ways. But lying beneath the ceiling fan alone, I felt giddy with triumph. I'd faced summer head on and won. Or that's what I thought as I drifted off to sleep, failing to consider that it's only June and that Shane's gone until September and that lizards, being cold-blooded creatures, easily overheat in August.