And after that, I find myself at the local pool hall with The Construction Worker.

He shows up, 5 minutes late. I forgive. I was expecting a more tardy entrance, so I brought a book. We chat a bit, mostly about his home country, which, I wont deny, sounds fabulous.

Then he asks if I want to play pool. Yes, I do. I find pool a great way to continue conversation, but with an excuse to hide the awkward pauses. Kinda like going to a baseball game. Anyway, so I tell him that I’m really horrible; that I used to play a lot in high school, but not so much since then. This, somehow, gives him the idea that he can tell me how to play. Wrong. I know the g.d. rules, and I never plan on playing pro, so just let me hit the fucking balls. I ignore this completely. I don’t count it as a strike at all.

The honeymoon didn’t last long:

Strike 1: He tells me what it means to “scratch”

grrrr.

But then, he smiles, and he has fantastically white teeth. I forgive.

Strike #2: He tells me what ball to go for. I don’t care.

But then, as he’s pointing it out, I realize how great his butt is. I forgive.

Strike #3: He tries to tell me where to hit the cue ball.

But then, as he’s pointing it out, I realize how fantastic his triceps are.

Strike #4: he corrects my posture

But as he’s doing so, he grabs me by the waist, and shoulder.

Strike #5: He tosses me the chalk and tells me I’ll play better if I “chalk up”

But then he shows me his tattoos, and I forget about strikes altogether.

Then…the bill…

And…

He…

PAYS!

Yay! This is a big deal, because this is the same bar I went to once with a guy who stuck me with the $100 tab.

PS: I’m pretty sure I scare the crap out of him.