She was wearing patent leather pants and a bronze metallic jacket beneath hair bleached to bone white. There was a boy trailing behind her into the bar, dressed in nondescript jeans and a plaid shirt. I caught his quizzical look when she ordered a Lemon Drop Martini, saw him hesitate before the row of craft beer taps and ask which of them was most like Coor’s Light.

She was shorter than him by three inches, but her heels made her taller. She tottered as she walked. Even so she whipped him in three straight games of pool, cocking her hips and leaning over every shot as if for the benefit of the bar’s collective gaze. He took his beating with the same befuddled look, more than once visibly disbelieving at her more difficult shots.

When she led him out, tottering no more and no less after three martinis, he followed with the gait of a man who knew his place.

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