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These Arms Of Mine. Walking back, she looks a little bit
lighter. “I love this song.”
    “Yeah.
Me too.” I go back to wiping tables. We don’t talk for a little while and I’m
running through ideas for what I’d do to spread the word, other than tell my
friends and acquaintances. Does she have a page on Yelp? Are their photos? Does
she have a Facebook page? How about Pinterest? She could have boards on cocktails
and a music playlist with suggestions and… the list goes on and on.
    I
don’t know what’s giving me the urge to help, but I know that I can. Isn’t that
enough? She might shoot me down. It was hard enough to talk her into seeing me
tonight.
    Looking
at her silence as she counts, her hair pulled over one shoulder; I decide I’m
going to give it a shot. She can always say no. I’ll just walk over and offer
my services to her. Tell her I’ll do it for free; help her get set up and she
can take it from there. But without a map, how can you get anywhere? Why am I
nervous? People pay me for this.
    She
looks to her right and sees me standing next to her behind the bar. With her
pen suspended in the air from writing the final drawer count, she says, “Oh! I
didn’t hear you walk up.”
    “Look,
I didn’t mean to get you worried.”
    “You
didn’t. I was worried already.”
    I
scan the bar again, building up the courage to say it. “I could help you.”
    She
blinks, still holding the pen. “What do you mean?”
    Glancing
to the floor, I weigh the dirty, now crumpled-up bar towel in one of my hands,
looking at the dark crinkles. “Well, this is your baby, so forgive me for
imposing. But I think I could help you market it, if you’ll let me. Marketing
is my thing. It’s what I do.”
    She
brings her hand up to her mouth, the pen stuck between her fingers. She looks
pretty cute. On a whisper, she finally manages, “Why would you do that?”
    I
really don’t know why. Because I like the place? Because I can? Something tells me it’s more than that. “I feel
like I could help. I want to.”
    She
drops the pen and brings both of her hands up to hold her head like she’s
afraid it might explode. “Are you being serious? You’re not just saying this?”
    I smile. “I’m totally serious. You know
what’s cool?”
    “Having someone help you?”
    That
makes me laugh and I shake my head. “No, it’s offering to help someone and have
them appreciate it as much as you just did. Great. So it’s a plan?”
    Staring
at me, she’s speechless. She just nods. Chuckling to myself, I walk back out
and grab a chair to turn it over on the table. As I do, Dirty Deeds Done Dirt
Cheap comes on, by AC/DC. I glance to the iPod player, impressed that she has this on it.
    “Great song.”

13
Annie
    Mind:
blown, with pieces caught in my hair, on my clothes, and in the rubber mats
under my feet. What the fuck just happened.
    ________
     
    I
finish the ledger and slide it into a drawer, struggling to accept that this
night isn’t a dream. It has to be. “Of course you love it. All men love AC/DC.”
    “That’s
because all men have good taste,” he throws back.
    “I
disagree with that.” I grab a clean towel, dunk it in the sink, wring it out and
wipe the bar counter down as we talk. Many, many times, I steal looks at him,
watching him picking up those chairs with his muscles tensing each and every
delicious time.
    “That’s
because you women don’t get the genius. Women hate AC/DC.”
    His
smile is challenging, and it stirs up my competitive streak. “See, now that’s
bullshit.”
    His
eyebrows fly up. “Is that so? Bullshit, you say?”
    I
make a pffth sound and nod, moving the pile of napkins over so I can get under
them. “Total bullshit. We don’t like AC/DC because most of us mistakenly
believe that there was only one singer, not knowing that Bon Scott died in his
own vomit, thereby leaving the band to have to settle for the screaming
fuckhead who took over. It’s the screaming fuckhead we