These are days

“You won’t give yourself to me.”
My arm is in the crook of her arm, and she’s got her thumb wedged into my armpit. Her other hand is deeply working the muscle that is my right bicep.
“Trust me.”
We’re at the bar at The Squire Room, and I’m getting an impromptu massage.
And I’m liking the attention.
She knows me, I knew of her around town. But a slight nudge (at The Clover Club, of all places – it being a dive bar to end all dive bars – but a musician friend was singing “Danny Boy” every 15 minutes) by a mutual friend put us barstool-to-barstool.
We talked. We laughed. We compared massage techniques.
She’s a writer. She’s an actress in the local theater scene.
And she’s a certified massage therapist.
“I specialize in muscle,” she said. “I like your muscle mass.”
It's somewhere past midnight. The bar is packed.
My crowd was staying put at the Squire. Hers was headed to the 501 Club (a gay bar that's got a fantastic jukebox).
I was headed home.
“Norby told me to get your number,” I said.
“She said that, huh? She told me that, too.”
We hugged.
We exchanged cards.
“You’re going to call me, right?” she said.
Absolutely.