Ginny Fartappe was a whimsical, sensitive, determine young woman. You could see the whimsical in her eyes, large brown saucers that looked at you with every expectation that you were a saint and dancing knight in shining, etc. The sensitive was in her wide, tremulous lips—though these were just the front for a tongue that could speak water and air to angels or fire and brimstone to demons, should the occasion arise. Of course, when those lips parted in smile they revealed teeth set in determination that had not quite been hidden in the firm straight line of her jaw.
It would be a fool who believed the eyes told Ginny’s whole story. They didn’t. But for Mark Milesonova, those eyes suggested an easy conquest.
They were in a bar, the Silver Tap and Dance Hall, to be exact. Ginny was sipping a beer and keeping Barbara Daun, the bartender, company. Mark was sidling past the two stepping two timers who were the usual crowd at the Silver. He sidled up to the bar beside Ginny and leaned an elbow on the bar. He looked up and down at Ginny, first at the shape of her bosom, then at the curve of her ear and how her black hair draped over it and hung down her back, almost to her really nice rump.
“What’ll it be, Miley,” Barbara said.
“I’ll have whatever she’s having, and her too,” Mark said.
Barbara smirked and turned to pop a top.
Ginny turned her brown saucers on the guy leaning on the bar. The saucers did not see any shining knight. The saucers had a very mild glint of heat in them. The smile widened, until it was a grin of very strong, some might even say, canine teeth.
“I do not take kindly to being compared to your alcoholic beverage,” she said. She said it with a kindness her eyes were not communicating. In fact, she said it with a smile that was not communicating kindness either.
“I’m sensitive that way,” she said.
But Mark was too caught up in his memory and fantasy of whimsical brown saucers looking for shining white knights to pay much attention to the sudden chill in the vicinity of the bar.
“No offense, sweetheart,” he said, pushing down on his elbow to elevate himself so that he was tall enough to look down at her eyes, instead of directly into them.
“She aint your sweetheart,” Barbara said. She put the beer bottle down on the bar, and pushed it against Mark’s propping elbow.
Without taking his eyes off Ginny, he said, “She can speak for herself, Bar Bee.” “Bar Bee” was the usual crowd’s name for Barbara. She did not like it.
“Well, I’ll leave you to your destruction,” Barbara said. She pushed the beer bottle against the elbow again and said, “Ten dollars.”
“Ten. . . ?” Mark was only slightly distracted from the various parts of Ginny, though it is unlikely any of those parts was the determined chin or really, really fang looking teeth.
“You were buying mine too, right,” Ginny said.
“Uh, Uh, sure,” Mark said. “Put it on my tab Barb.” He did not have the balls at that point to say “Bar Bee.”
“You don’t have a tab.”
“And you know something,” Ginny said, her eyes no longer saucers, but slits of anger, “I really don’t accept drinks from people smaller than they are who reads my good natured eyes and see me as two tits and an ass. I am sort of sensitive to that.”
Then she turned and looked into the mirror behind the bar, and her eyes were wonderful brown saucers again.
There is no need to tell you about Mark. He just sort of vanished. Barbara went on serving drinks. Always first to those fools who did not call her the Bar Bee.