A few months go by, and ironically I had still not so much as seen or heard anything about *him*  - which in a town with a population of 152 it is down right unthinkable to not hear about or see someone. 

It was a Thursday night and the owner fixed a pitcher of his infamous Cosmopolitans and he and I sat around after closing for a bullshit session.  He starts in saying that he knows of a few men around that he thinks he could set me up with, and why haven't I taken advantage, meaning started dating, the few guys he had seen hit on me.  "You need to find a farmer with money and grab him up before someone else beats you to it" he says.  I told him that the whole game of pursuit and conquest does not interest me in the slightest.  I described how cheap and gross it makes me feel to get hit on.  I said "The day a man is confident and honest enough to walk up to me and say 'You're pretty cute, can I have your number?' I'll give him my number but until I can meet a man that can be that honest, I don't have time for games.

The next night was very busy, and by the end of the night all I wanted to do was have a Blue Moon and play some Pantera on the juke box.  I am in full cook garb; Hanes T-shirt with food stains on it, a pair of black nurses scrubs (like working in pajamas they're so comfortable), Birki clogs with beer batter and various other sauces spattered on the toes, and a black bandana on my head.  I walk out of the kitchen and belly up and grab the Blue Moon and start counting my change to see how many Pantera songs I can play.  Next to me is one of the servers a petite little thing that always has hair just so, nails done and the most fashionable outfits on, the perfect example of society's definition of "hottie".  (Don't get me wrong, we were great friends; no hostility intended.)  I look to my left and see this guy with these arms at the end of the bar, and have to second look.  We make eye contact for a second and I look away because I could feel my face getting red; I felt as if I had been struck with a lightning bolt.  A few seconds later I hear him ask the guy next to him, a very good friend of mine, "Who's that?  Can you introduce me to her?"  My friend, we'll call him Clutchman, replies with a chuckle, "Oh no, man.  If you want to meet that one you're going to have to introduce yourself.  She's different."  Well, my insecurities got the best of me and I instantly think that they must be talking about the gal I'm sitting next to, because considering my current appearance, there is no way he's talking about me.  "Oh well", I think, "at least I have enough quarters for a couple songs".  I make my way over to the juke box, passing Clutchman and *him*, start putting quarters in the slot and *he* walks up to me and says, "You have a really nice smile, and I think you're pretty cute, can I have your number?"  Instantly I was 13 and giggly, "Bartender, can I get a pen?"