Find A Talker

Sitting back at the bar, after everything else Lois had been through tonight, felt like being back at square one with twice as many questions and no answers. No, Lois needed to find a talker...

She scanned the room, tapping her fingers next to her empty glass—and felt something warm brush her hand. Lois turned back to the bar to see a hand retreat from her, holding the empty glass, a fresh milky white cocktail in front of her.

"Sorry about that miss," the bartender smiled, voice raised over the crowd.

He was a slim young, androgynous thing with too much makeup and not enough style—white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to expose pasty forearms. Black vest, black bow tie. Black lipstick and eyeliner, dark hair brushed back, a bit of rouge on his cheeks...

Lois brought the cocktail to her lips, and quickly scanned the deserted bar. The club-goers had all invaded the dance floor for a moment.

"What's your name?" The reporter leaned in, pitching her voice just quiet enough that the bartender had to lean in to hear her. Crouched together over the bar, there was a certain feeling of intimacy... Lois repeated her question.

"Sal," he said, then started to rise. Lois caught his collar, just above the bow tie.

"Sal," she held him with one finger, the other playing around his neck. "I like you Sal. You're discreet. Is there somewhere we can go to...talk...in private?"

The bartender swallowed, unmoving. Time to raise the stakes. Lois leaned in to whisper in his ear. "I'm still thirsty, Sal. Think you can help a girl get a drink? Something...warm and fresh-squeezed?"

If Sal knows what's in the drinks, he'll know what I'm asking for. The reporter figured. If he doesn't...well, it wouldn't be the first time I've had to get a little dirty to get a story. And he is kind of cute.

Lois' stomach rumbled...and despite her rationalization, she realized she hadn't lied to Sal. Not one bit. There was a gnawing emptiness in her gut that went beyond a bunch of drinks on an empty stomach. She wanted to suck him dry.