text: “I’m not a fan of online dating”, he said, in between taking a sip of his old fashioned. “I mean, what’s the point, really? In my opinion, online dating has only two purposes: the first being for sex, and the second being for validation.” At the other-end of the table, a skinny brunette sat quietly and listened. With her frayed hair, blue eyes and perky breasts, she wasn’t anything remarkable to look at. In fact, besides these perky breasts, she didn’t have much to offer in terms of beauty. But for the most part it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if she was a five or six (*her mother always thought her to be the former*) because middle-aged men, when confronted with the possibility of being alone, always settle for less than their perceived ideal -- which was fine by her. For here she was having a drink at one of the finest gin-joints in town free of expense. “How do you figure?” she asked, while gulping down Merlot, staining her teeth with a tinted red. “Well, Maria --" “Theresa” “Huh?”’ “My name is Theresa, not Maria.” “Alright, Theresa, you have Tinder, right?” “Tinder?” “The dating app where you swipe left or right depending on whether or not the person is ugly or not.” “Hey, that’s not very nice --" “I’m not trying to be nice. I’m just stating the truth.” “Well, my mother always said if you can’t say something nice, then don’t say nothing at all.” “Isn’t that from Bambi?” “Honestly, most of the things I’ve learned in life came from my mother or television, so it could be either...” Theresa chuckled and then flicked her hair back. Her split ends radiated in the stenciled brass lighting. There was just something about her that made him tick; perhaps, it was because of this bar they were in. The place was far busier than usual from what he remembered, and tonight the curved arches, balconies, and balustrades made it impossible to view anything without romantic undertones. He’d like to think that. He’d like to think that the sound of the Atlantic crashing against the rocks was romantic. “Anyways,” Theresa continued, “As you were saying?” “As I was saying,” he went on,” Do you have tinder?” Theresa shifted in her seat a little. “...Yes, I have tinder.” “And why do you have Tinder?” *A suede jacket, a gold watch, and wingtip dress-shoes. A suede jacket, a gold watch, and wingtip dress shoes* -- yes, this was a man who had made a living understanding the cost of needing to make a living. “Why do you have tinder?” he asked again. His elbows now draped alongside the wooden countertop. “Sorry, I zoned out there for a second,” she apologized. “What did you say?” “Why do you have tinder?” he asked once more. Theresa raised her wine glass and took another gulp; her face was obscured behind a veil of opaque purple. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. As she guzzled down the final few drops, the man with a suede jacket, a gold watch, and wingtip dress shoes watched. “I’m looking for the love of my life,” she replied. **...** She reached for the bottle: there was no more wine left to be drunk. Fuck. “You know, why this place is famous right?” he slurred, as he swaggered back and forth in his chair. Theresa took in the view: antique floor and table lamps; a fireplace carved of brilliant marble; palm trees casting luminous shadows against white walls; old and young couples alike hiding their insecurities in twenty to twenty-two-ounce chalices and surface-level conversations. Even with last call announced by the bartender, the place was evocative of a glitz and glamour that even a F. Scott Fitzgerald novel would pale in comparison to. “It’s where they filmed, Casablanca, isn’t it?” she finally spoke. “No, they didn’t film Casablanca *here,*” he said, gesturing around the room, nearly keeling over while doing so. “It’s a recreation of the bar in the movie, you know--" “Rick's Café Américain*.* Yes, I’ve watched Casablanca before,” she interrupted. “...Then would you know that the sculpted bar over there is where Humphrey Bogart first recited, of all -- “ *The gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine*. Yes, I’ve seen--" “And that 1930’s Pleyel piano the in-house pianist is playing is the same one Sam played while singing, *As Time Goes By*” “Right now, I *wish* time went by --” “And those oak doors over there is where Ingrid Bergman--" “You really know a lot about this place, huh?” she interjected, coolly. The man with a suede jacket and a gold watch and wingtip dress shoes sat in silence for a moment. Then he reached for his old-fashioned: there was nothing left but bitters and a melting ice cube. “Well, I used to come here all the time when I was your age,” he continued. “And how long ago was that?” she asked. “When I was married.” He looked over at the wooden doors again. “...You were married?” It was where Ingrid Berman, the Swedish blonde who painted her face with her eyes, first strolled into Humphrey Bogart’s little gin joint. “Once upon a time”, he replied, raising his drink. He held it in the air for a long moment. Reluctantly, she clinked her glass against his. Then he lurched back into his seat -- which took a great deal of effort -- and she laid her glass back down on the table. After this was all said and done, he reached for his collar and adjusted his “tie”: he wasn’t wearing one. It was a motion he most likely had grown very accustomed to. After all, at the moment, he was too maudlin to notice. Then he said something about working in an office and wanting to hang himself. Why not? Go for it. Who am I to stop you? Wait, she shouldn’t project. “And what is it that you do for a living” Theresa asked, resting the weight of her chin on her arm. “Advertising,” he replied, with a drunken grin. The bar went quiet, or the lack of an ambient murmur seemed to indicate so. Regardless of how many people were in the place, Theresa now sat erect in her chair with her shoulders upright. She was quite-lady-like. “And what is it that you advertise?” she asked with her eyes now locked on his. “Mostly dating apps, ” he answered, “That’s why I asked you if you had tinder earlier. I wanted to know why a girl like you goes out with a guy like me.” Theresa curled her lip inward and bit down hard. A metallic warmth pervaded her pallet, tantalizing her taste buds with the sin of...*.more.* She wanted *more, a*nd this man before her could also be found wanting; for here he was, in one of the finest gin joints in town, wanting what came after an old-fashioned, a decorous bill, and a moonlight escapade through the razor-thin alleyways of Casablanca with the fog rolling in. It shouldn’t be her fault he had already planned the route before they had even met. **...** “I like older men”, Theresa sweetly said, as she wiped her lips with a cocktail napkin. The shade of red where her lipstick found its mark emblazoned on the coarse surface like an autograph given from a Hollywood starlet. “Do you now?” He replied, puffing his chest out in the process. He must be attractive to her. “There’s just something attractive about an older man, wouldn’t you agree?” she said, leaning over the table and sliding his now empty old-fashioned over to her end. Then she pulled out the melting ice cube and examined it. Drop. Drop. Drop. The liquid dribbled over her knuckles and became more and more evaporated as she fingered the cube more and more-- “Wouldn’t you agree?” she said once more. The condensation from the ice cube soaked into the wood. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. In the midnight heat, they glistened. “...What, what do you mean?” he squeaked out. Theresa bit her lip and smiled again. Then she took the ice cube and hovered it near her mouth. “There’s just *something* older men possess that younger men do not,” she said, lipping the ice cube. “And, yes, a younger man may be chiseled and confident and charming -- hell, they might even fuck like horse in bed...” Drop. Drop. Drop. Crystalline wetness glistened upon her lips and then fell from them onto the soaked wood. The man with the suede jacket, a gold watch, and wingtip dress shoes inched to the edge of his seat. “...but there is just *something* about an older man that cannot be beat. There is just *something* about them that is just irresistible, and for the life of me, I can’t put my finger on it.” She held a very long look at him. “Do you know what *it* is?” The man the suede jacket, a gold watch, and wingtip dress shoes sat at the other end of the table, unmoving. “...is it because they have stature? Theresa nodded her head thoughtfully and wiped off the water that formed on her hands; the ice cube had melted. “...Yeah, that could be *it.”* A moment of silence passed between them. Then Theresa stood up with her purse in hand and walked over to him. Then she began encircling his wrist; it was smooth to touch and heavy to feel, as if you could scratch the color off-- “I’m going to go freshen up before we leave. Is that okay?" she asked, leaning in close, her fingers running along his. “...Would you like me to join you?” Theresa smiled and then stepped away from him. “I don’t need any assistance.” she said, walking away from the table. “Just the bill.” **...** As she maneuvered her way through the tables and toward the restroom, he looked on intently. There was just something about her that made him tick; perhaps, it was the way she looked at him and smiled. Even now when she eyed the wooden doors, and then the restroom, and then the wooden doors once more, he was floored. It was as if he had a front-row seat at a ping-pong competition, swinging his head back and forth, wondering which thing would capture her attention first; and, as she entered the restroom, she was all the more the spectacle. She knew what she wanted, and he didn’t dare change her mind -- he wasn’t even that drunk. He didn’t dare encumber himself with the fact that he knew she was more than he bargained for because when you’ve been selling nothing for years, you don’t pass up an opportunity for a new product... ...that’s advertising 101. You give the customer what they want. And no matter how flawed and fragile that product may be, you give the customer what they *want.* I mean, look at Apple these days: they don’t make quality products. They make iPhones, iPads, and Air Pods -- a bunch of parts loosely strewn together in a Malaysian sweatshop -- and in a few years, you’ll be paying seven hundred dollars for “repairs”, for something that was already broken. He knew what that felt like. He knew what it felt like to purchase something that was meant to last for years but didn’t make it past the warranty. He knew what it felt to like to invest in something that was supposed to take a lot of wear and tear, only for it to break at the first sign of trouble. And he knew what it felt like to love, only for that love to be found in a motel room fucking the brains out of someone who didn’t even know her name. God, she had spent a lot of time in the restroom. **...** He should be embarrassed he should be *embarrassed* to be drunk as a skunk and drool all over the place in front of other people its fucking embarrassing and the worst part is that tomorrow he’ll tell all his corporate pencil pusher buddies that he balled the broad at the bar and then proceed to brag about how good he fucked her Christ why are my eyebrows so lopsided and why are my breasts so perky and why are my cheeks so chubby why is he such a miserable little wretch he has a suede jacket and a gold watch and wingtip dress shoes and no heart he is a shallow creature who can’t control himself he can’t hold a conversation he will work in an office from nine to five until the day he dies and he will never know what it’s like to hold the hand of someone he loves and he will never know what it’s like to look at someone and be totally vulnerable and he will always be the one who sits down at a table and have no one look up and he will always be the joint that people pass around take a hit of and then exhale and he will always be a whoring wanting human piece of trash that no one dared to love because there wasn’t much to love. ...God, why am I looking into a restroom mirror? **...** By the time she finally returned from the restroom, the bar had all but cleared out. The table lamps were extinguished. The terracotta tile, once carnelian and gleaming -- set in the floor by hand -- lay waste to footprints. Even the bus boy, who wouldn’t fool a soul if he asked for a drink, had already wiped the sweat off his brow and bussed his last table. There was no left in the place, except for him and her. There was not a human noise to be heard, nor a person seen moving. Everyone had left for what came after a drink and dinner. “That took awhile” he said, reaching for his old-fashioned: it wasn’t there. One of the bus-boys must’ve taken it earlier. Theresa bore over him silently, watching him grasp blindly for what was already lone gone. "There was a long line at the cue.” she finally replied. “...I’m sure there was.” Theresa’s eyes darted across the room towards the rest room and the wooden doors. There was no one at either. “Do you want to leave?” he asked, his eyes fixated on where she was looking. Theresa stood there for a moment, silent. “...Are you sure you don’t want to get another drink? The man with a suede jacket, a gold watch and wingtip dress shoes tapped a black leather envelope that lay next to him. “The cheque’s already here.” Theresa stood there for a moment once more, silent. “...You sure, you don’t want another drink? The man with a suede jacket, a gold watch and wingtip dress shoes shook his head. “ I’ve had enough to drink.” he replied. Theresa looked over to the other end of the table. Sure enough, the cheque was there, flat on the table. Next to the cheque, a gold watch wrung around a plump wrist. On the floor, wingtip dress shoes planted into the ground. Before her, a suede jacket that looked about two sizes too large wrapped around an equally too large torso; and above that... *blue eyes.* They were such flawed and fragile and vulnerable and harrowed and broken and tormented and lonely and greedy and guilty and unworthy and pitiful and beautiful, blue eyes. “...So, what’s the damage?” she said, her eyes glued on his, unmoving. The man with the beautiful, blue eyes smiled. "I’ll pay,” he answered.