Her hair was red.  More accurately, that deep, coppery color of a woman with Irish blood, and that she had, along with the name and a lilt to the voice. 

“Eileen,” she said, once I finally got around to asking.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Some things you need to know about me: I am what people are wont to call “a loser.”  Meaning, specifically, I have nothing that would pass for good luck.  No money and precious little chance of ever having any.  This is because I am a moron, aside from being a loser.

Now, should you trouble yourself to look up “moron,” what you will find is a number of synonyms.  Scan down the list till you find the term “writer.”  That’s me.  A writer.  And to seal my fate, I am the most moronic of the morons – a freelance writer: no regular gig, no steady source of income, no stability.  No money and precious little chance of ever having any. 

Yes, a loser.

How did you guess?  You are far swifter than I, gentle reader; I can tell.

So stay with me as I unravel this little tale.

I’d like to say I was doing something heroic when I met her, something involving showing a manly physique, my sexual magnetism, my finest intellectual skills.  But, no, I was washing dishes.  That’s life in the fast lane, dears.  I needed some quick cash… well, OK, I’m lying.  What I wanted was a bottle Sailor Jerry Spiced Rum so I could go get dog drunk and forget the fact the editors at “The Atlantic Monthly” had literally wet themselves with laughter at the essay I’d tried to sell them.

Yeah, I know it was a long shot to send it on spec in the first place.  I was desperate.  I am a moron.

So, I had received my urine stained rejection slip that morning courtesy of the U.S. Postal service (thank you, by the way), and immediately lit a smoke (I had quit the day before – bad idea) and called up my friend Samantha.

Sam owns a restaurant and bar called George’s.  Who is George?  Beats the hell out of me.  I only know Sam.