1
Maggy
“Hey there, lovely lady.”
Looking to my right, I see a much older man sitting next to me at the bar. A man who wasn’t there two minutes ago. No, two minutes ago my best friend and coworker, Robin, was there. So I ask, “Are you talking to me?” Then I point to myself.
Without answering my question, he continues. “Were you aware you’ve got 206 bones in your body?”
Yes, he’s talking to me. “Uh, no. I didn’t—”
“Want one more?”
My eyelashes are fluttering like butterfly wings as I ponder his question. And then it hits me. What he’s asking. As soon as I figure it out, I throw my head back and laugh. I laugh my freaking ass off. Because that was the best pickup line of the night, for sure. Maybe the best one I’ve ever heard. It’s too bad it came from the smoke-addled voice of a man who looks to be older than my Grandpa Milton. And my Grandpa Milton is dead.
RIP Grampy Milt.
“Uh….” What am I supposed to say to that? I know if my friend and also boss, Robin, was here and not over sitting on some burly biker guy’s lap, she’d probably do me a solid and tell the old fart to get lost. But I’m not like that. I’m nice. I mean, I’m a florist. I work with flowers to create beautiful arrangements. Part of that job requires me to be on my best behavior. Customers who walk into Robin’s shop expect us (well, me, since Robin works in the back most of the time) to be as happy as the flowers in our case.
Trust me. It isn’t always easy.
I still haven’t thought of a good response or in this case rebuttal, so me and Grandpa Milt’s doppelgänger are just staring at each other.
“So, what do ya say, toots? You want that extra bo—?”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Mad Dog, you old fucker. Hit the road.”
“Fuck you, Nate.” The old gentleman who I now know as Mad Dog says to a voice that’s right behind me. Someone apparently called Nate.
Nate. You know… that’s not a very creative biker dude name. Not like Mad Dog.
Oh, I guess I should back up a little and tell you where I am right now. I’m at a dive bar called EZ Riders. EZ’s for short. For some reason, Robin decided she wanted to find herself a biker boyfriend.Ithink it’s due to the fact that she’s gotten into MC romance novels whilesheclaims she’s just getting in touch with her wild side.
It’s probably a bit of both.
“Mad Dog,” the deep voice growls. It honestly sounds rather threatening. If I were Mad Dog, I’d probably skedaddle.
“Fine,” Mad Dog spits. “But you are a fucking asshole, Nate.” He points his thumb at me. “That big gal was a sure thing.”
Big gal?Well, Mad Dog just said the absolute wrong thing to me. I turn my head slowly and glare at him. I’d love to tell him how many ways that was Not. Nice. Or inappropriate or something, but I’m not about to lay into him while this guy Nate is close enough to hear. It’s bad enough he heard “big gal.”
Not that he can’t look at me and see Mad Dog’s assessment of me is spot-on. Well, of my body. I’m what I wish someone would call “voluptuous.” Yeah, isn’t that an awesome word? Or Rubenesque is another one I read about in one of my college art history books. I could go on, but this other man, this Nate person, has just sidled up next to me. He’s taken Mad Dog’s spot to my right.
I don’t turn my head completely to see him. Instead, I side-eye him, and that’s when I realize who Nate is. He’s the guy I noticed the minute I walked into this place because he is, hands down, the best-looking guy in the entire bar. I may even go so far as to say he’s the hottest guy I’ve seen this year. Or last. Robin agreed, but according to her, “He looks like he’d be a lot of work.”
“Sorry about him.” Nate holds his hand out for me to shake. I finally turn my head all the way and place mine in his as he says, “I’m Nate.” And he says it close to me. Close enough for me to take in that his scent—his soap or whatever it is—is manly.Verymanly.
He’s staring at me intently, and I realize he’s waiting. “Oh. I’m Maggy.” I giggle like the kind of women I ordinarily make fun of. The flirty women I’m actually kind of jealous of. “No worries.” Then I shrug like I’m used to simultaneously getting hit on and insulted by octogenarian biker dudes.
Truth? I don’t get hit on that often.
Or ever.
The fact that it’s happened twice now is a novelty. Neither one of the lines was great. I mean, “Are those real?” was the first one. That guy accompanied the line with a finger pointing at my chest and both of his eyes focused on my cleavage. So, yeah, not good. Mad Dog’s was at least original. Sort of.
And for those of you expecting an answer, yes, they’re real. No matter. I am what I am, and after thirty-four years dealing with my weight and body image issues, I’m finally at a point in my life where I’m okay with the way I look. It doesn’t mean I don’t get my feathers ruffled when someone calls me a “big gal,” because I do. I probably always will. But I’ve found a happy place with my body. I guess there are some good things about getting older. Acceptance. It’s sort of nice.
“I’m surprised the rest of the guys haven’t been all over you like flies on shit.”
