Sweet Nothings

The clock on my dashboard read 11:45 as I pulled into the parking lot. My windshield wipers smudged the rain and dirt on my windshield as I slid into the closest parking spot I could find. I scanned the parking lot for Pollo's car, then settled in to await her arrival. From my spot inside my car with the window cracked, I could hear the thump of the bass inside the bar. As I took the last drag of my cigarette, I saw the familiar headlights of Pollo's civic turn into the entrance, then slowly creep past me in search of a spot. I checked my makeup in the rearview mirror one last time, then opened my door to greet her.

She was already out of her car by the time I reached her, her long hair damp from both her recent shower and the drizzle of rain falling on us. I tossed my finished cigarette to the side as we smiled at each other and headed for the door.

"Weech one did jou wear?" She asked, nodding toward my chest.

"The light blue one," I smiled, "and the new bra."

"Good," she said, laughing.

"What about you?"

"The black one from Express," she said. "And my feet steel hurt, by de way." She was referencing our day-long excursion at a local mall, where we spent six hours in search of the perfect going-out ensembles.

We pushed open the door only to be greeted by stale smoke and screeching guitars. With our newly purchased clothing concealed by light springtime jackets, we made our way through the bar in search of her husband. As we wandered through the packed club, the lead singer of the band caught my eye. He was tall and handsome, with a nice voice and a nicer body. I was instantly happy I'd dropped too much money on a cleavage-enhancing bra and slinky halter top.

We spotted Pollo's husband tucked at the end of the bar with a friend, chatting over bottles of beer. As soon as his eyes found us, he hurried to greet us. He offered to take our coats, and we obliged.

With the removal of our coats, the evening began. We shed our black jackets to reveal full chests and supple dellecotage. The eyes of all the male patrons found their way to just below our clavicles, and we giggled at the attention. We sauntered to the bar with Chuck in tow, and as we did, one man slapped Chuck on the back. "You sure have a rough life," he said. "Yes. I. Do." Chuck responded.

As I nursed my vodka and cranberry, I kept my eye on the lead singer. He was tall, with muscular arms and a smooth voice. I liked the way his chest looked in the spotlights of the stage. I liked his smile. I liked it all.

He caught me looking at him and smiled at me. Now that contact had been made, we continued it throughout the night. It seemed that his eyes found me no matter where I was. The flirtation was decadent, even if it was only with our eyes.

By the time the band had finished, I was ready to be approached. As he moved his instruments from the bar and into the band's waiting vehicle, I waited patiently for him to come talk to me. He stacked some odds and ends at the corner of the bar then made his way to me. As he drew near, I straightened myself in my seat, checked my cleavage and tousled my hair. I felt beautiful, as well as successful that the one man I wanted had come to seek me out.

He was right in front of me, and I thought This guy is beautiful. And he's talking to me.

And then he spoke.

"Tho, do you guyth come here on the weekendth?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you guyth come here on the weekendth?" He said, louder this time, competing with the DJ.

"Y-y-y-yes." I responded. I couldn't believe it. Where was that lisp before? Why hadn't I heard it when he was singing? I felt cheated. No fair! I wanted to shout. I cannot meet a guy this cute only to hear he has a lisp!

He delivered a sexy smile. But the attraction was gone. I could only imagine him whispering Thweet Nothingth into my ear.