It was because of her that I occasionally considered sexual reassignment surgery – you know, casually.  Kind of.  As a fantasy… because Sam is a lesbian.  And I am too, except I’m a guy.  This is an impediment to practicing the lifestyle… kind of…. 

It’s confusing.

“You’re a male lesbian!” a drunken friend of mine once yelled at me as we were discussing this over cups.  Needless to say, I never discussed it with anyone again.  I only mention it to you, because you are a trustworthy bunch, are you not, gentle readers?  I can see you don’t have it in you to mock a sincere and sensitive artist in the midst of his narrative.

But I digress.

“How you holdin’ up, writer-boy?”

“Damned hands hurt.  As usual.”

She giggled.

“Maybe if you worked for a living….”

“Watch it, woman.  I’m liable to walk out of here and leave you in a world of hurt if you keep it up.”

She was laughing now.

“Shut up and go have a smoke.  Tell Frankie to pull you a beer.  You’ve got… 10 minutes.”

“But I have to piss, too!”

“Then you better drink, piss, and smoke at the same time, buster….”

That’s harder than it sounds, ladies.  I know, because I was drinking, pissing, and smoking all at one time about a minute later.  Almost burned myself.  And that would have been rather miserable – she’d have had to compensate me with two bottles instead of one.

9 minutes to go.

I walked out the side door into the alley to catch a breath and a second smoke.  And that’s when I saw her.

Her hair was red.  More accurately, that deep, coppery color of a woman with Irish blood.  She was wearing a dark green cardigan and black mini with dark stockings.  Her boots were high-heeled, feminine, nigh fetishwear.

Of course, I choked on my beer.  Smooth, that’s me.  Smooth.  Shit spewed out of my nose and extinguished my fresh cig.  She took a deep drag on her own smoke and did her best not to burst out laughing, keeping her mouth half-covered by her hand.