I don’t remember if it was 3 or 13. I have a problem with numbers. All I remember is your smile, and our words, after you sent another my way.

“You doin’ alright?” you said, raising your glass.

“At least so-so,” was my automatic reply.

“I’ve seen you around here the past few weeks. What’s your story?”

God, I hate that fucking question. I’m a writer, you dolt. If I had one story I’d be dead under a bridge somewhere. Jesus. I have to collect myself. Charming. Aim for charming. That’s the only option. “Which one you want?” I ask.

You turn to your glass, your burgeoning blush shielded from view and quickly recovered.  “You have more than one?” you offer.

I laugh. “God, I hope so.” I take the first sip off the beer you shot my way and shoot you a smile. I feel bad. You didn’t know. How could you know?

“You’re a writer,” you say, perfunctorily.

“Guilty as charged,” I smile.

You chuckle. “Me too. Watcha write?”

“A little bit of everything,” I say, lighting a cigarette.

“I see,” you say, and I figure that’s the end of it. That’s the bit a beer will buy you. And yet you linger. “Your scar —” you start, motioning to my eyebrow — “there’s a story there. Tell me that one. What happened there?”

I took another sip and lit a smoke and a smile. “That’s not a story I want to tell,” I said with faked sincerity. “Ask after another.”

We talked through another two rounds about life and love and everything in between, and at some point I took a shine to you. So it should’ve come as no shock that when you asked about it again, I was ready and willing.

“So,” you started, “your eyebrow.”

“I brought a gun to a knife fight,” I said.