“Do you have a preference on rum?” The bartender is likely in her early thirties and has a nice, symmetrical face

“Well is fine.” I feel ashamed. I am forty-eight years old, and I want to order something fancy. Tara would have gotten me whatever I wanted.

When the bartender hands me my drink, my phone lights up with a text from Tara.

My heart starts to race. I’m afraid. I know I was completely out of line the previous night. When I was younger, I would have felt my mean texts were justified. But at forty-eight, I know they’re “inappropriate.” The court-appointed therapist said I learned bad behaviors from my childhood. But I thought my childhood was great. We lived in a nice house with a cherry tree, and my dad bought me every doll I wanted. It wasn’t until my dad left that things got, well … annoying. I don’t like to dwell too much on the past.

I take a big sip of my rum and Coke and then open the text.

It’s exactly these types of texts that I cannot handle. I would have ended things in person but frankly I’m scared of you, Dawn. I hope you get the help you need. <3

How condescending. I don’t “need help.” I need someone to accept me for who I am. I am volatile, sure. But I have a good heart, and I’m really fucking fun—the life of the party. And I have perfect tits. Anyone would be lucky to have me.

I gaze at the bartender. I can’t date a bartender, but I can flirt.

“How’s your night going?” I ask when she walks over to wash a glass.

“It’s okay,” she says. “Pretty slow.”

“I know what that means,” I say. People who haven’t worked in service think it’s more relaxing when it’s slow, but it’s way worse. Time moves at a glacial pace. When it’s busy, time flies and tips flow. “I wait tables over at the Blind Pig.”

She smiles a sweet smile. “I just really want a new Coach bag.”

“What’s it look like?” I ask. I don’t actually care about the bag, but I want her to like me. I’m a people pleaser. All Leos are.

She pulls out her phone and leans over the bar, almost touching me, and I can smell her perfume, which is flowery. She shows me a photo of the bag. It’s cute. Baby blue, my favorite color, and a nice classic shape.

“I love the color,” I say. I pull my lighter out of my purse and hold it up to the phone. “Almost the same.”

The bartender laughs. “I’ve always wanted a purse the same shade of a Bic lighter.”