-They have pluck-

Somewhere in a bar far from home, a pretty woman in a black-lit white dress approached me. She named my high school and my college, followed by a question mark.

Excuse me? I said.

Which do I know you from? She shouted over some 80s music.

Maybe both, I said. Puzzlement was giving way to recognition. We spoke for some time around the music. Her friend was somewhere else in the bar, but she was in no hurry to find her. After the obligatory SO WHAT DO YOU DOs and small talk, we made each other laugh.
Let’s go to the Boiler Room, she said, locals hang out there.
Good idea, I said.
A pair of twins with short blond hair took control of the dance floor. Mesmerizing.
Will you look at them? I said. They have spirit.
Well, enjoy the people watching, she said.
Smiled.
And plucked her friends arm.

Much later I reclined on a couch and reflected on the meeting, and tried to imagine how it might have gone differently. But as usual, I can’t bring myself to paint a bright mental picture.

Suppose she and her friend had come back home with me, and suppose her friend had consumed too many shots. Suppose we talked in hushed tones over her friend’s lolling head, and set the sloppy body in front of the television set, watching the movie of her choice while she, SHE, and I stand on the porch listening to the ocean. So far, so good.

But then my mind insists that the movie of her choice is Muriel’s Wedding. No substitutions, try as I might. And that means ABBA.

This is the worst ear poison I’ve encountered since the Olympic Air flight that only played bad Michelle Pfieffer movies.