He was talking about a boat.  Where he’d keep it, what size… All the important stuff one considers before purchase.

“The 17 footer, that’s just too small, and then the 30, well that’s nice… But I was looking at the 54-“

Which is where I jumped in with a guffaw “54 feet? That’s huge.  Can you steer a boat that size by yourself, or don’t you start needing help?”

“Yeah, I might need to hire someone”

I rolled my eyes, “Well, then, that right there answers the question!  Go for the 30.  You don’t want to have to worry about staff!”

He paused, unsure… looking me over with wary, drunken, humored eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re probably right there.”

And then he laughed and moved to touch my middle again, and I laughed along with him, thinking to myself, Buddy, you’re lucky I’ve been drinking and consider you kind of a goof, or that hand of yours would be stinging from a serious karate-tempered-SMACK.

You see, I was in Vegas.  And I was having a good time.  AND I had (for the moment) taken down the “Fuck off” sign that usually resides across my forehead.

The sailor-to-be was a much-too-old-for-me gent whose brother was talking up my mom while dedicated waiters plied us with glass after glass of liquid ambrosia…

I was definitely a bit drunk.

But I was also keenly aware of every little masculine maneuver…  So much so that I was already composing this post in my head – what I would say, how it would start, and the weird feeling of being so, totally, hyper-aware of it all…

It’s not a problem I’m unfamiliar with.

I don’t know what it is about me that makes it so hard to let people talk to me.  I mean, I’m not the “Walk-into-a-crowded-room-and-people-drop-their-drinks” kind of gorgeous, but I’m generally attractive enough that gentlemen may want to chat me up.  The problem is that I’m instantly on guard and wary of all who approach.

Citizen A was no exception – his whole manner set off my radar.

He had, for instance, been creeping steadily closer, his hand was making repeated passes at my waistline, and he was doing his level best (unoriginal though it was) to impress me with his buying power.  I registered all of this as he dropped more lines about boats and travel destinations, and the places he liked to eat… completely amazed at the processes by which this fellow aimed to awe.  When he finally made the gaff of mentioning his wife, however, his startled eyes jumping and darting towards mine in a split-second-blend of panic and c’est la vie, I merely nodded and sipped, sipped and nodded, as though nothing had changed… because nothing had; this bemused and indifferent face had never been leaning into his story with anything more than good-humored listening.  So he kept chatting, kept scooting, and I realized that as attentive as this man may be to my dress, he certainly was not a pro in the scmooze-a-girl game he seemed to be playing.  When I snuck a peak at his wedded finger, my amusement did shudder a tad – his finger was frighteningly naked; he’d evidently given enough forethought to his prowling to take it off- and I found this an appalling indication of the man’s bad manners.  Nevertheless, I continued to sip and nod as he talked about Chicago theaters and my assured greatness were I to get my work to the people in charge of them… and, of course, his boat.

Meanwhile, I marveled at my attention to detail, my presence of mind – I wondered at my ability to size him up, understanding these initial ticks… And I wondered at my own defense system – so on alert that even from this inebriated state, I could see so much of this man’s “show” for what it was.  In fact, I was so interested in my own observations that I sort of ceased listening to him, wrapped up in thoughts of my own, all the while nodding and “hmm”ing and making all those other polite sounds and movements one makes when one “listens”…

Because at that moment, I’m two people.  I’m Tiffany-the-Person, who’s standing in a swanky bar sipping swanky wine, carrying on a discussion and laughing when appropriate, and I am Tiffany-the-Writer, who is silently dissecting this man, turning him into a sociology experiment, writing his character… I’m two places at once; the bar, and wherever my muse lives.  I’m whole and apart… I’m wondering where the waiter went, because everything is tasting delicious, and I’m thinking about how I will discuss this boat-man on my blog.

It was nearing the witching hour at this point, and the brotherly gents needed to be getting along to their dinner engagements.  I almost spit out my wine when they asked if we wanted to “meet up” later, but my mother, who has (apparently) mastered the art of friendly denial (versus my not-so-friendly guffaw), tells them that we don’t know where we’ll be “later” but maybe we’ll run into them by chance – we’re just playing it by ear.

The men smile, we smile, everyone sighs.  It had been a fun experiment in social mores; we the laughing women, they the strutting men.    They leave and we giggle… and I mentally make a few finishing notes to myself about what a wacky start we had to our night!

And then, just as I was beginning to wonder about my penchant for over-analyzing things, I sighed and smiled – proud of myself for carrying on a conversation with someone I didn’t know, and happy to have that someone gone so I can flag the waiter for one more glass of yumm before we stumble out into the Las Vegas night…  to see what would happen next.