She was like a New Yorker cartoon without the class. Dry, unfunny, and useful for impressing people who were easily impressed. We met outside a bar named after an Ivy League at five past two, when no one's in any particular hurry to grab their car before the pay lot closes.
We had a grand total of nothing in common. She wore her hair short and smoked reds, I wore my hair long and smoked Spirits. She read Dostoevsky, I read Kafka. She liked her martinis shaken, I, stirred. She struck a match as I grabbed the lighter from my cigarette case.
"Show was pretty eh tonight, huh?" I said, realizing both of us were waiting on DDs who probably weren't sober enough to find their cars.
"You kidding? I haven't heard anyone butcher a Wren Harper cover that bad since Eli Reed meets Bloodstalker." She exhaled through her nose. "I'd say it was the worst three hours I've ever spent, but competition's real close."
"No way, not even top ten," I said. "You haven't had a bad three hours til - you know Perry