By: Kim Karr

Me, I’m not so happy with my fake date right now.

“Hey, I’ll be back,” Keen tells me.

Then, just like that, he struts across the dance floor. And I swear the pulsating lights only seem to highlight his gorgeous silhouette as the distance between us grows ever wider.

More than a little stunned by his rapid departure, I watch as the jutting lines of his shoulder blades urge me to chase after him, but then he disappears into the crowd and I realize I’m left standing here all alone.

Hey, wait!

What about me?


New Year’s Eve is about resolutions and change and everything new. This one means more than that to me. It marks the start of my reemergence into the real world.

Everyone said fashion wasn’t the field for me because I hate to match. The thing is, I do match. Stripes with polka dots. Studded boots with frilly dresses. High heels with casual shorts. Leather and lace. One black and one white Converse. They are perfect combinations. I’m a fashion merchandiser with my own sense of style. But sadly, no one approved, which is why I was fired from almost every major boutique in SoHo and ended up in Laguna Beach lifeguarding for the past few years.

But I found the solution—men’s apparel, not women’s—and in two days, my life will forever change.

I can’t wait.

Focusing my attention on the here and now, though, I am not any too happy about my current situation.

Returning from the ladies’ room yet again, I’ve pinned my hair up and tossed some cold water on my face to help sober me up. I walk around and then when I see a space open up at the bar, I lurch for it. As soon as I take a seat, the bartender gives me his immediate attention.

This one is super cute. He’s a tall, broad-shouldered guy clad in a tight gray T-shirt and worn jeans. His eyes are dark. And one of his ears boosts a small gold hoop. His head is shaved close to his scalp all over, and although it isn’t a look I normally like, it works on him.

He smiles at me and I smile back. I know he is paid to flirt as much as to mix drinks, but his smile still floods me with warmth. With my own smile remaining falsely in place, I order a glass of water. Time to lighten up on the liquor and sober up.

“Going for the heavy stuff,” he laughs.

“Wait,” I call out as he turns to grab a glass. “On second thought, make it a whiskey.”

Why bother sobering up?

The bartender grins. “Sure thing, baby doll.”

I suppose if I wait around until closing, I could have him, but he is not who I want. Tapping my fingers on the bar, I look around again. Still no sign of Keen anywhere.

Very unlike me, I rushed off to the ladies’ room after he left me standing all alone instead of just moving on, and I haven’t seen him since.

And yes, admittedly I have been looking.

A man sits beside me. He, like the bartender, is attractive. This one is more clean-cut, much more my type—suit, tie, square jaw, and good hair.

The tan line of his wedding finger is not telling of his marital status, but again, I’m not interested in him enough to even find out. Before he has a chance to make small talk, I turn a little in my seat and start to eavesdrop on the couple beside me. I try not to laugh out loud at the line this guy is feeding the girl.

Here’s a little secret—girls say they hate pickup lines, but privately most girls love them. Me included. Of course there is a fine line between a good conversation starter and comically bad introductions.

Tonight Keen’s pickup line rated between a nine and a ten, and I don’t think I’ve ever given a guy a score over a five.

This guy next to me just used one of the worst lines ever on the poor girl beside him. It went something like this: “Hey, excuse me but do you know this fabric?” He grabs his own shirt. She shakes her head. “It’s boyfriend material,” he says.

No wonder she’s walking away.

Speaking of which, I’d better hurry away too before he uses that line on me. I finish my drink and conveniently decide to make my way around the bar. Yes, perhaps to look for Keen, but also because parties for one aren’t much fun.

In a matter of moments, purple lights turn to white, but all I can see is green.

There he is, leaning against the railing with a drink in one hand, his attention on the redhead with the flapper haircut in front of him that was in Brooklyn’s pack of women earlier. She’s fit and pretty, if you’re into vintage whores with red lips, I guess.

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