Jeff ordered a round of shots for everyone and two martinis for us. If he was buying, then I didn’t care what he ordered. They immediately started talking business and I gleaned that each was employed in finance. They bitched about the long hours and the low pay and made empty threats about how the bonuses had better be big or they’d quit after Christmas. I could contribute nothing of worth to the conversation despite my having worked in the same field for slightly over a year after college, for who can talk money when broke and out of work and whose most recent weeks were spent bouncing from couch to couch to avoid sleeping on the streets following an eviction?

Our martinis came, a shot of Scotch placed in front of each man. They clinked glasses and drank. I sniffed at mine first, shivered, then followed suit. I had a buzz already from the two Scotches at the apartment, and since I’d only eaten a muffin and a deli sandwich all day, I knew the liquor would hit me quick. The olive-soaked martini tasted awful and I had to muscle it down with big gulps. Eating the olives was out of the question. I dropped them on a napkin. One of the guys eyed me with dismay so I picked them back up and returned them to the drink.

I tuned out their conversation and in no time I felt a bit numb and I noticed my foot tapping to the music. I spied the rest of the bar. As many women as men. My chance of bedding any of them, however, was a whole other issue. But what did I care? I was in a new city full of new people and nobody knew who I was or the struggles I was going through. That’s the great appeal behind fresh starts, the luxury of pretending we’re somebody we’re not. Sometimes we even believe it. Sometimes we can convince others to believe it, too.

“So how do you two know each other, anyhow?” the guy beside Frank asked me. The inflection in his voice made him sound like some old-time gangster from the prohibition era, or as though he’d been raised in the Bronx.

“We grew up together,” I answered.

“Another Ohio boy, eh?”

Jeff nodded and threw his arm around me. “This guy right here,” he said, meaning me. “State champion in wrestling and national All-American.”

“No shit?” Frank asked.

“I kid you not,” Jeff said. “Was an animal on the mat. Used to beat the shit out of guys.”

I cracked a smile. “Back in the glory days, anyhow,” I said.

“Very cool,” Frank said, and then changed the subject by asking, “And you just came from New York?” I nodded. “Never did like the city much myself,” he went on. “Kind of snobbish. The people always seem rude and standoffish to me.”