The Barmaid Blog™: Life for a 20-something Manhattan Barmaid

Thursday evening I'm working with Cindy, and we're doing a decently brisk business, but nothing unusual. At one point Cindy comes down to where I'm cutting limes.

"Didn't you say that single malt Scotch is better than blended?"

"If I did, I wasn't explaining it well - why do you ask?"

She gestures discreetly toward the other end of the bar. "Those guys in the suits have been drinking Johnnie Walker Blue for the last couple of hours, and acting like it's a big deal."

"It is, kind of. Have you seen what we charge for it?"

"Yeah, tonight for the first time, though. That's why I'm asking."

"Okay, let me try again. Single malt isn't necessarily better, it's just more individualized. Every year's batch comes out differently, and a single malt is only made from that one year's batch, so it has a distinctive taste, kind of like a vintage wine from one year will be a little different from the same wine the next year." Cindy nods, and furrows her brow as if she's taking mental notes. "A blend is the distiller's attempt to make a Scotch that tastes exactly the same every year, by mixing a bunch of different batches together."

"Okay, then - is Johnnie Walker Blue so expensive because they somehow manage to mix a bunch of different batches together that tastes fantastic and exactly the same every year?"

I shrug. "Honestly, I have no idea. I don't like it, but then I don't like blends in general. Maybe if you're nice enough, they'll buy you one."

"Nah, I don't drink."

That stops me in my tracks. "Seriously?"

Cindy smiles. "Seriously. Nobody ever asked me at the interview, so I figured it was okay." She turns and goes back to the other end, where the suits seem about ready for another round. Not that I would've been looking for it, but now that I think about it, I can't remember noticing her with an alcoholic drink in her hand. How about that, I think to myself.

In the interim, Jack has come in, the first time I've seen him in a few weeks. I walk over with a smile and hand him his usual Stella Artois, and the first thing he says to me is, "Hey, Debra, are you okay?"

"Yeah, Jack, I'm doing fine, why?"

"Well, your Facebook status last weekend said you were bawling like a little baby or something. I was a little worried."

I smile. "You didn't come all the way down here just to ask me that, did you? You could've e-mailed me."

"Oh, no," he laughs. "I was actually hoping to get some advice from Mario, and maybe you, too."

"Mario's not around tonight, at least not yet. What's the problem?"

"I asked you first," he grins.

I shrug. "No, it was no big deal... I was watching 'Band of Brothers' with Jenny all last week, and that night we got to the episode where Easy Company stumbles on a concentration camp they didn't even know was there, and there were all these hundreds of emaciated Jews, and thousands more dead. It just upset me more than I expected, I was a wreck the rest of the night."

"Oh, sorry. How did Jenny take it?"

I don't take my Judaism all that seriously; I mean, I work almost every Friday night, and I refuse to believe in any God who wants to take my bacon cheeseburgers away from me. But I guess I take it seriously enough that all things considered, if I ever manage to convince myself that having kids is a good idea, I'd like to have Jewish ones. And that has sometimes colored my dating habits with men, but I didn't stop to wonder whether it mattered with women before I made that leap.

I remember wanting to see "Schindler's List" when it first came out, but my parents wouldn't take me because they felt I was too young to handle it. When I finally rented it in college, I watched it at my sorority house. I was inconsolable at the end, but the few sisters who'd watched with me seemed kind of put off by my reaction, as if I was deliberately overdoing it. When I spoke with my father about it later, he asked if the other girls were Jewish. "No," I said, "but human suffering is human suffering, isn't it?"

I heard him sigh over the phone. "Debra, I think you know I'm the last guy who would ever encourage you to think of yourself as different or better in any way than anybody who's not Jewish. But the Holocaust is one thing that some people just don't get, and in my experience, it's been people who aren't Jewish."

I was genuinely shocked that he would say such a thing, and I dismissed it, thinking that maybe his feelings on the matter were shaped by growing up in a different time. And then I watched "Band of Brothers" with Jenny.

She asked me if I had lost any family members in the Holocaust. Not that I know of, I said between sobs, and it was true. As far as I know, both sets of my grandparents were here in the United States long before World War II. Maybe some distant cousins were still in Europe, but nobody's ever told me about them. To her credit, Jenny's only further reaction was to look at me a little funny; then I suppose she gave up wondering, and focused on just holding me instead.

So as I notice a large, co-ed crowd of softball players coming into the Bar, I shrug at Jack. "She spent the rest of the night comforting me." We made love well into the night, too, though I don't say it out loud to Jack - probably the best sex we've ever had, not that I could begin to explain why. Me and my white-bread, Episcopalian sweetheart getting each other off a half dozen times so that maybe we don't have to talk about how she doesn't get why I'm so upset and how I don't get why she isn't.

"That's certainly something."

"Hey, stick around, okay?" I say to Jack as I move off to help Cindy with the thirsty athletes. "What is it you need advice about, anyway?"

"A woman," he says, "but take your time."

Things don't quiet down for a pretty solid two hours after that, and by the time I have a chance to catch my breath, Jack's gone home.

Friday evening, for the first time since January, I see Bonnie. I don't see her at the Bar in her old Coors gear, or run into her on the subway; I see her on the side of a bus stop shelter in midtown. She's gazing at me seductively from a fashion advertisement, and it absolutely stops me in my tracks. I'm grateful that Jenny isn't with me, because although she knows about Bonnie, I don't know if she'd understand my need to stop and stare. Before I can convince my feet to move again, I start to remember what it was like for someone to have that much control over me just by looking at me or saying my name. Obsession isn't love, but being owned so completely can be just as overwhelming.

Eventually I peel myself from my spot on the sidewalk and finish my trip to the Bar, making a mental note to avoid that corner for a while.

As I walk in, I see Tony and Carl sitting at the far end of the bar, and they both get up to give me a hug. I'm running a little late, so I promise them we'll catch up shortly, and I run to the back room to drop off my bag. After I've checked in with Jocelyn and Maya, I check in on the boys with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in my hand.

"How's your girlfriend, girlfriend?" Carl grins.

"She's good, thanks. Working hard, as always. And she asked me to move in with her."

"Holy cow," says Tony. "That's huge! Are you gonna do it?"

I smile. "I don't know, to be honest. It's fast, and her asking was sudden. I've got a couple of months to decide before I have to renew my lease with my roommates, so I'm not thinking about it much right now. But it sure would be convenient - I haven't taken the subway this much since I was a grunt at a publishing house."

"You don't move in with someone because it's convenient, Debra," Tony lectures.

Carl snorts at his boyfriend. "Who do you think you're kidding? This is New York, my friend. You moved in with me because I had a balcony and a wide-screen TV!"

"Don't you believe him, Debra," Tony wags his finger, "I moved in with him because he cooked the best risotto I've ever tasted." I laugh, and leave them in order to serve some other customers.

"Where's Mario tonight?" I ask Jocelyn a little while later. He isn't always there when she's working, but it's unusual for him to miss a Friday night.

"Oh, he's away for the weekend with Angelo. They went to Atlantic City, I think."

"You didn't want to go with them?"

"Nah, I'm not much for gambling. Besides, it's good for them to have a boys' weekend every now and then."

"So what are you doing Sunday?"

She shrugs. "I don't know, what am I doing Sunday?"

"Come over to my place, the girls and I are doing our traditional bagel brunch and watching the Yankees-Mariners game, and Jenny will be there. I'd love for you to get to know her."

She bounces a little (which makes her enormous breasts bounce a lot), and says, "Hey, that'd be great!"

At a little after ten o'clock, Susan and Grace, the current Coors promo girls assigned to work the Bar, enter and start making their way through our customers. As far as I know, Grace doesn't know anything about the woman she replaced or why she left; she just happened to be next. Susan on the other hand stops by the bar to say hi, and gives my hand a squeeze.

"Have you seen her ad?" I ask, and she nods. "I don't think I was prepared for it," I add.

Susan shakes her head. "Nobody has ever been prepared for anything about Bonnie," she says, and turns to dive back into the morass. For the first time, I wonder if Bonnie seduced her, too, or if she's talking about something else entirely, and then I decide it doesn't really matter. The very next thought in my head is to try to remember who actually paid for the enormous leather sectional couch in my apartment, and whether my roommates Cassie and Jill will want to keep it when I leave.

When I leave. I've already started to make up my mind, haven't I? I think to myself. And for a moment - just a moment - I bounce a little, too.

(Many thanks to Bridget E. Wilde of Bewildered Art for permission to use her Barmaid Fox drawing as a userpic.)

Jenny's getting out of a taxi in front of my building as I walk up, and she smiles when she sees me. "Hey, baby," she says, "I hope you don't mind, we got done with that EBT earlier than expected." She's carrying her briefcase, her purse, and a bottle of wine. The plan was for me to cook dinner for us both tonight, but I wasn't expecting her for about another hour and a half.

"Of course not!" We give each other a hug before we go in. It occurs to me that I have no idea what an EBT is, but I don't ask.

"Mmmm, you smell like the beach," she says as we break the hug and go inside. "Where were you?"

"Bryant Park, soaking up the sun and the wi-fi. That's just sunscreen you smell."

"I love it."

Howard the doorman hands me the mail, then tells me he has a package for me, so we wait for a moment.

"I was going to take a shower and change before I cooked dinner."

She grabs my ass, and leans into my neck for another whiff. "Don't." I don't have time to respond before Howard returns and hands me a box from Amazon. I thank him, and we head for the elevators.

"What did you order?" Jenny asks.

"Nothing," I reply, and point to the address label where, instead of my full name, it reads Debra the Barmaid. "One of my blog readers must have sent me something from my wish list." I open it up, and sure enough, a reader named Christopher has sent me the DVD box of the "Band of Brothers" miniseries. (Thanks so much!!)

We're halfway into our first glasses of riesling, I've started to get dinner together, and Jenny has told me a couple of funny stories about the confusion over Passover at her law firm, before she comes back to it. "You don't think that's weird, people you don't know sending you gifts?"

I shrug as I chop an onion and pray for my contact lenses to prevent me from tearing up. "I don't know, I guess I think it's really sweet. I was surprised the first couple of times anybody sent me anything at all, but nobody's forcing them. In fact I've never even asked, I just put the link to my wish list on the blog for shits and giggles."

"So why do you think they do it?"

"I don't know, to be nice? In appreciation for the blog, or something. Like I said, I think it's sweet."

"I wonder. You don't think they're trying to get in your pants, or get you to reveal something about yourself? Maybe someone thinks they can find you by tracking a package?" She pours us each some more wine.

"Well, if that's why they're doing it, they're wasting their money. You can't track a package you send to someone else using their wish list, that would totally defeat the purpose of letting you hide your address." And since when are you so cynical and suspicious? I want to ask her but don't.

"And the, uh... pants thing?" She edges closer, puts her wine glass down on the counter, and places a hand on my hip as I sautee.

"Well, you know," I grin at her, "the packing slip does include the address of the sender. So even if he can't find me, I could go find Christopher at his home address," - I walk back into the living room, where the box still sits open on the Comfy Couch - "which is," - and I read the address out loud to her as she watches me with eyebrows raised. "Yeah, so, to thank him for spending a little money on sending me a television show, which I'm pretty sure he sent me in the first place to thank me for writing something I don't get paid for but which he got some enjoyment out of, I could fly to his hometown, show up at his doorstep, and fuck his brains out." I casually stroll back into the kitchen and resume sauteeing.

"Am I being a jealous bitch?" Jenny asks me.

"They just read about me, honey. You get me."

"I know, at least I think I know, but there are thousands of them, and only one of me. And I can only give you so many gifts."

"Do you want me to take the wish list down?"

"No, no, you're right, it's sweet. I would never ask you to turn away a nice gesture from a fan."

"Will you watch 'Band of Brothers' with me?" I add a bunch of shelled shrimp and spices to the sauteed onions, and the sizzling gets louder.

"Of course. Will you come live with me?"

"I - what?"

"Your lease is up for renewal in July, you told me so yourself. Jill and Cassie can find someone else to take your room, can't they? I have so much space, and Puppy loves having you around, and we could be together every single night, no spare shit in a drawer, no cabs or subways home first thing in the morning only to go back to sleep."

"I don't know, Jenny, God, I only met you a few months ago. We've never talked about it, I've never thought about it, I love it here with my friends - I mean I love you, you know that, right?" She nods. "But it's awfully soon!"

"Yeah, I know. I'm such a cliché, right? The lesbian and the moving van..." I laugh. "I just don't want to have to wait until next July."

I take a deep breath. "I didn't know you think about this stuff."

She puts a hand on my cheek. "Every single first thing in the morning."

I take her in my arms and kiss her until the shrimp starts burning.

It's a couple of Thursdays ago, and while most of the people in the Bar are watching the Yankees walk all over the Kansas City Royals, I've got one television tuned to college hockey. It's not even really for me, though I'm watching when I have the chance; it's for Will. It's the first time he's been back here since Samantha died, and we're all naturally worried about him. But for the moment, he's sitting at the bar talking to Mario, and Maya - Samantha's friend, and the reason she started coming here and met Will in the first place - is mostly just standing there and listening to him. Simone and I are taking up the slack willingly.

Notre Dame is playing Michigan in the national men's hockey semifinals, and they've jumped out to a 3-0 lead. Will has said in the past that he doesn't really care that much about Michigan's hockey team, even though he played on their football team, but it's the reason he's supposedly here, and he keeps shaking his head as things look bleaker and bleaker. During the second intermission, after Michigan has finally made a game of it by scoring two in a row, Will asks me a question I'd sort of been hoping wouldn't come up. But I suppose if it was to come up at all, it's best coming from him, because the main reason I wasn't going to talk about it was not to rub it in his face. "How's things with you and Jenny?"

"They're good, thanks. We've been spending a lot of nights together." Maya slips off to serve some customers so that I can stick around and talk for a while.

"Is it love?" he asks, the second reason I was going to avoid the subject.

"I have no idea, Will." And that's the honest truth. "But whatever it is, it feels very good."

"Okay, I'm - listen, I'm only going to say this once, but I'm sorry, there's just no way I can let it go without saying it at all, it's just who I am... can I, uh... please come over and watch it feeling good sometime?" Will finishes by smiling the most innocent smile. If it were anybody else but him, I might actually be a little angry, but with Will I have to laugh - and I have to be relieved that he's in a good mood.

"I'll make you a deal - as soon as New Hampshire wins the Frozen Four, you can videotape Jenny and me having sex."

Mario laughs, but Will just sticks his hand out for a shake. "You've got a deal, Debra. And you've made a brand-new New Hampshire fan." I wonder, for a moment, what I've gotten myself into... and then I wonder for a few more moments whether Jenny and I will still be together when next year's Frozen Four arrives, much less whenever my alma mater finally wins one. We've never really talked long-term.

Will sips from his Anchor Steam. "So how did you and Jenny meet, anyway?"

"Oh, it was a blind date. It's all her fault," I say, pointing to Simone, who's a few yards away trying to convince a customer that she doesn't really want to order a tall glass of Goldschläger on the rocks. "We road-tripped up to New Hampshire for a few days in mid-December. I met her family, we hung out at their brewpub in Portsmouth, then she came with me to see UNH play hockey against Maine... we got totally socked in by a snowstorm that weekend, and ended up raiding her Dad's wine cellar. She was bitching about the pressure she was feeling to get a boob job, I was bitching about the online dating thing, and suddenly she said, 'Hey, you and this lawyer I know would totally hit it off.' So she gave Jenny my e-mail and here we are."

"Wait," says Mario, "how did Simone know Jenny in the first place?"

"Oh, I think Simone used to be a Starbucks barista across from the courthouse in Brooklyn Heights, and Jenny used to come in a lot, or something."

"Nice," nods Will. "You really never know how you're going to..." He can't seem to finish the sentence, and looks away as he drinks more of his beer. Mario puts his arm around Will's shoulders. I really don't know what to do except reach for his hand on the bar, and give it a squeeze before I go back to serving drinks. When Michigan finally loses to Notre Dame in overtime, 5-4, Will has long since left for home.

"I thought Bike Week was only in Florida," Maya shouts to Cindy and me as she passes with four pints of beer precariously balanced in her hands. I'm quickly trying to show Cindy how to layer drinks, and Maya's briefly picking up the slack until we're done. It's not an unusually busy Friday night, but Friday night is busy enough, so we're working as quickly as we can.

I shout back, "I think it's earlier in March, too," and after she sets down the pints, Maya shrugs and moves on.

"Is this Bike Week?" Cindy asks, and gestures to the back end of the Bar, where about a dozen men and three women have taken up residence in all their leather-jacketed, tattooed, rowdy glory. Their motorcycles made a horrific noise when they pulled up in front of the Bar about an hour ago, and since I've never seen these people before, I wonder if they chose their bar for the night based entirely on where they lucked into a couple of empty parking spots. Either way, they're running a credit card tab, so we know they're good for their drinks.

"I have no idea what this is," I tell her. "Bike Week is in Daytona Beach, and it's supposed to be one of the biggest gatherings of bikers in the world. Maybe they're on their way back from it or something."

"They're a little scary, don't you think?" She looks genuinely nervous, and I glance at them again.

"Think of them like you would any other large group of customers. I doubt they'll give you any trouble, but if they do, we've got your back - and you know Bill and Diego do, too." The layering lesson ended, we go back to slinging drinks, much to Maya's relief.

An hour or so later, I'm serving a third round of Cabernet Sauvignons to a very cute gay couple, when one of them points to the other and says, "Tony has something he wants to ask you."

"Carl, I do not!" Tony protests. "At least let me get another glass of wine in me."

"Fine, then I'll ask her."

Tony closes his eyes, covers his ears with his hands, and says, "I can't hear you!"

"Whatever it is, fellas, ask me soon, there's a lot of people I have to get drunk."

Tony sighs, and Carl puts a hand on top of mine. "Okay, Reader's Digest condensed version: Tony's never been with a woman, he's still curious about it, all his girlfriends have crushes on him and he doesn't want to screw them up, you're beautiful, blah, blah, blah. So?"

I smile. "Okay, my first reaction is, when you want a woman to sleep with you, you need a better compliment than 'You're beautiful, blah, blah, blah.'"

"You are, though," says Tony. "Your smile and your cute little ass are the best things about this place." I feel myself blushing, and for a moment I actually consider saying yes. He really is adorable.

"That's incredibly sweet, Tony, but I'm seeing someone right now."

Tony sighs again, and Carl pats his thigh. "That's one very lucky man."

"Woman," I correct him, winking.

"Look at you!" he marvels, and I head off to take more drink orders.

It's not much later that Diego taps me on the shoulder and directs my attention to Cindy, who's at the other end of the bar trying to take a drink order from one of the larger, leather-faced biker dudes, who has three other biker dudes behind him as spectators. She looks a little bit like a deer in the headlights, so I starting heading in their direction and tell Diego to give Bill a heads-up.

"...loosen up a little," is what I hear as I approach, "I just want to know what kind of woman you are, whether you've ever had a man like me." It's not really that far out of bounds from what we tend to put up with all night around here, so I let it slide and keep listening.

"So that's another round of beers, then?" she offers, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. Nice, I think, but I stick around just in case.

"I mean, have you ever had so much beer you woke up the next morning with a brand-new tattoo and a guy you didn't recognize, and you didn't remember screwing him the night before so you screwed him again just to make sure?" All three members of his current entourage laugh.

"I don't have any tattoos."

"I'm not sure I believe you, I might have to check you for tattoos myself. Slowly."

I step in. "Sir, can I help you with anything?"

Leatherface ignores me completely. "Have you ever sold your house, bought a new wardrobe made entirely of leather, chains, and denim, and gone on the road with a man because you just knew you couldn't live without his vibrating engine between your legs every day and his dick between your legs every night?"

"That's... I, you don't..." Cindy's not happy.

I try one more time. "Hey, that's really not cool, okay? Why don't you back off for a minute, and we'll get you something to drink." His friends laugh again. And then it suddenly occurs to me that I might have been just a little bit hasty with my earlier advice. All told, there are an awful lot of them, and not very many of Diego and Bill. I think about my options, and slowly start reaching into my pocket for my phone, wondering if I could dial 911 without looking. That's when he leans forward, rests a hand on the bar, and gets right in Cindy's face, but doesn't lower his voice at all to ask his next question.

"Honey, have you ever been fucked on a Harley?" He leans back again and smiles, one of his compadres patting him on the back.

I almost have my hand in the air to signal Bill when Cindy leans forward and asks with great force and conviction, "What model and year?"

And that's when the hooting starts. Leatherface laughs right along with it for a minute, then says, "You're all right, sweetheart. Get us another round, willya? And this is for you." He throws down a twenty, and turns around to chat with his buddies while Cindy draws their pints.

"You all right?" I ask.

"Holy shit, Debra, where the hell did that come from?" she says, laughing and shaking a little.

I shrug and move on.

I'm twenty-seven.

It's Saturday, March 15, and I'm out to dinner with Jenny, who I guess at this point is my girlfriend, though I've used the term so many hundreds of times in the past to describe a friend who happened to be a girl that I would really like to find another more appropriate semantic designation. We're out in the West Village at Jane, a restaurant I've walked past a hundred times but never tried, and it's wonderful. I gather she must eat there pretty regularly, as they keep bringing us nice little treats compliments of the house, and I don't think she's told them it's my birthday.

She's trying to explain to me a chain of title problem she's working on for a film production company her firm represents, without being able to name the company, the film, or any of the people involved in it, and I'm confused, because I'm still not sure I understand what chain of title is in the first place. I hope it won't sound arrogant if I say that it's refreshing for a change to be across the table from someone who is so clearly smarter than I am, but it makes me wonder a little bit what she's doing with me.

I know she appreciates my writing, she's said as much when she's read my stuff. She's a poet, so we share some creative interest. We make each other laugh. Like I've suggested, being with her is easy. And the chemistry is undeniable, but without the overwhelming compulsion there was with Bonnie. But she's a lawyer, and I'm a barmaid. I live with two roommates in the twenty-something, subway-challenged Irishpubniverse of the Upper East Side, and she owns an apartment of her own in Brooklyn Heights. And she's only a couple of years older than I am.

I like to think that I have a pretty solid amount of self-esteem and self-respect, especially compared to many of the other women I know in New York. I don't often wonder why someone is dating me. "You're the prize," my father told me when I was upset over Bobby Taormina asking someone else to the junior prom instead of me, "not them. Remember that." It's easy enough to believe when every single time I work a shift at the Bar, I get flirted with, hit on, complimented, asked for my phone number, propositioned, and even occasionally proposed to. God knows that's one of the perks of the job, the constant affirmation that I'm desirable.

But I wonder, have I been conditioned all these years to think I should only be the prize for men? I've been attracted to women for years, but I have comparatively infinitesimal experience understanding what would make me attractive to them. I don't know what Jenny is looking for, and while I would never ask a boyfriend that, I wonder if it's the kind of thing a woman can ask her girlfriend. I'm not familiar with the rules, and there's no "Lesbian Dating for Dummies" in the Sociology section of the Strand.

So as I sip my complimentary dessert wine, I resolve to continue trying to go with the flow and not worry so much, but it's not easy. I look at myself through this woman's eyes and all I see is a girl who doesn't know where she's going yet, and no idea how to get there. Jenny, well, she's already on her way, if she's not there already.

Why, I wonder, didn't I ever wonder whether I measured up to the men I've dated - even when they did their best to make me wonder?

We wrap things up at Jane and take a cab back to her place on the other side of the East River, where she's promised me a birthday surprise awaits. First, though, we take her rather energetic puppy for a walk around the neighborhood. We hold hands, and it feels comfortable, domestic, and natural. When we return, she hands me a wrapped box, and when I open it, I shiver. It's black, made out of sheer silk, and gorgeous.

No man has ever given me lingerie. I rarely even indulge in it myself. It never occurred to me that a woman would give lingerie to another woman as a gift. And Jenny has never asked me any questions about what kind I like, much less seen me in what little I already own. But if you'd asked me to pick out the sexiest, most elegant, retro nightgown that someone could give me to make me feel sexy, beautiful, and desired, my imagination couldn't hold a candle to this one. It's spectacular, and before Jenny can stop me, I've run off into the bathroom to put it on.

When I come back out, Jenny is scooping food into Puppy's bowl. She looks up and sees me in the gown, and a bunch of kibble lands on the floor. Puppy bounces around and yips excitedly, scattering the kibble all over the room, and before I can finish laughing, Jenny has crossed the room and pushed me up against a wall.

"I've never seen anyone so beautiful," she whisper-growls in my ear, and then kisses my neck. She pauses, runs a hand down my cheek, and looks in my eyes. "Sometimes I'm amazed you even want to be seen in public with me." I'm struck dumb by that alone, but what I see in her eyes is so true it takes my breath away. I reach out and draw her to me, and when we kiss she presses me nearly through the wall. Her hands feel warm through the silk, and we slowly free ourselves from the wall and kiss our way to her bedroom.

"No, I'm keeping it on," I say as she tries to start undressing me, and I swear she whimpers.

I'm the prize.

What would it take, I wondered, to bring me out of hibernation? Ten weeks of working, dating, writing my novel, and living my life without worrying about the instantaneous judgment of strangers.

No doubt about it, a girl could really get used to that.

I didn't even go into hiding intentionally - I was just posting less and less often, and then a few more days went by without blogging, and then a few more days, and then a few more...

In the meantime, Bonnie's modeling agency contract finally paid off, and in early February, Susan started coming around instead with Grace, a lovely Asian woman. The Coors family of products can rest confident in their place at the Bar. I haven't seen Bonnie since, and the few times I saw her in January, we managed to be civil.

Redhead took a huge leap and asked Danny out. She told me later that she'd finally thought of a good way to frame it: She asked him, hypothetically, if he could handle having a girlfriend who went out with other guys a few times a week as a wingwoman to earn a living. When he responded that he doubted it would ever come up, she asked, "Are you sure?" That was enough of a clue for him to figure out what was going on. That was the second weekend of February, after he'd been paying her for her company on a weekly basis for four months. Their first real date was on Valentine's Day, and she reported later that it was the most romantic evening she'd ever had.

I wanted to blog about it, I really did. For about five minutes, anyway. And then as usual I got busy with other things. I've been on half a dozen dates with Jenny, a very cool entertainment lawyer who writes poetry and has a beautiful black lab puppy. I like spending time with her, and it's not heavy or moving too fast or dangerous or bitter in any way. I've been working on my novel from time to time, but not nearly at the pace I'd like. At Lanie and Victor's request, I took an insurance seminar about managing bars - not because someone's leaving, but just to have me prepared as an alternate or substitute or whatever. Life, as they say, happens.

So why am I resurfacing now?

Valentine's Day wasn't a good night for just Redhead and Danny. Of all the improbable, absurd, absolutely wonderful things to happen, Will asked Samantha to marry him that night, and she said yes. She cried for nearly a half hour, I was told, while Will managed to keep the staff of the restaurant from freaking out completely. Then they danced for the rest of the evening, and argued about whether their kids would go to Michigan or Ohio State. They came into the Bar the next night to tell everybody the news, and show off her ring.

After that weekend, Samantha got sick.

Sam thought she had the flu. Will and Sam's roommate thought Sam had the flu, too. There's little about bacterial meningitis that doesn't make people who have it think they have the flu, unfortunately, and I guess timing is everything. Will was working all that next week, and although he was stopping by every night, by the time he got there that third night, she was hunched over awkwardly, barely conscious, and not responding to him. The hospital pumped her full of antibiotics, but by the time the spinal tap results came back positive, she was comatose.

Samantha died last Saturday.

I can only imagine how devastated Will is, because I haven't seen him or spoken to him yet. He accompanied Samantha's body back to Ohio for the funeral and everything else, and he's supposed to be back later today (Sunday). Maya went for the funeral and came right back, and she's worked the last few nights in a row to keep busy - in fact, she asked me for my Saturday night shift, which is why I'm sitting here at home, watching "Patriot Games" and writing in a blog I thought I might have left behind nearly two months ago. Some of you have claimed over the last couple of months in your comments that you came to care about the people in my life and what happens to them, so I thought you deserved to know what happened to Samantha.

I'm a little numb - partly because I was never Samantha's biggest fan, though it might seem callous of me to say so on this particular occasion. But it's also because I don't think her absence will change my life all that much. I wish there were some kind of deeply life-altering lesson I could take from all this, but "life is short" seems pretty useless to me. Will and Samantha couldn't have found each other any sooner than that first night they met each other in the Bar, so what good would it have done either of them to remind themselves how short life is? And I surely hope nobody would suggest that Will shouldn't have gotten involved with her in the first place, because it could have saved him the pain he's in now.

I would be deluding myself to believe that I am, every moment of every day, doing exactly what I want to do and making the most of my opportunities. But who really gets to live like that, besides people with trust funds and underdeveloped common sense? I'll take the joy I can from life and do my best not to hurt people in the process. But I can't live as if I'm racing against a clock, and I don't want to try.