I don’t have any plans until Monday, so I put out my cigarette and walk over to Chez Pierre.

In the bathroom, I reline my lower eyelids in black. I apply light pink lip gloss and flip my blond curls from one side to the other. I spray some Ralph perfume in front of me and walk through it. Then I pull down my tank top, just a little, to expose a classy amount of cleavage.

When I return to the bar, the light outside the windows is already gone. It’s only around 6:30 P.M. It always depresses me when it starts getting dark early, and it’s only going to get worse. I live for the summer, with its pool parties and live music, sundresses and flip-flops. My birthday is at the end of July, and I always throw a big bash. Everyone loves my birthday.

The bar is empty except for one older-looking man. He’s wearing what looks like a Rolex, so I think he will buy me a drink. He has to buy me a drink, because the drinks here are so expensive. So I sit right next to him, super close, up in his personal space, and ask in a breathy voice, “What’s good here?”

He sort of backs away a bit—rude—and says, “I don’t know, this is my first time here.” Then he returns to looking at his phone. He seems like he’s from out of town, probably the East Coast. I’ve never been to the East Coast, but that’s fine by me. Why would I travel when I live in Southern California, the most beautiful place in the world? My son once showed me pictures of this beach in Italy on his phone, saying he wanted to go there. I told him it looked just like Laguna Beach, which is only fifty miles from Riverside, and he got all huffy—I think because he knew I was right.

I look at the man’s wrist and notice his watch is not a Rolex. It’s some brand I’ve never seen before. Probably some snooty East Coast brand. Either way, he isn’t picking up what I’m putting down. I wonder if I’ve lost my charm. I’m always worried about this. Since I first realized I had sex appeal, probably around the age of thirteen, I’ve been afraid of losing it. I told that to Tara once when we were high out of our minds, and she said, “That’s just the female experience.” I miss her for a brief second, then shove it away.

The bartender walks over, and I say, “Rum and Coke.” If Mr. East Coast was buying, I would have gotten a fancy cocktail or an expensive glass of champagne. But rum and Coke will do. It’s happy hour, so the price is fine. I’ll just finish this drink and leave.