Today is St. Patrick’s Day and the bar is hopping; Veronica’s stomach is growling as she surreptitiously surveys the crowd.
Most everyone is sporting some shade of green, many claiming to be of Irish descent. One grizzled drunk in the far corner is peering at her as if gathering the vestiges of his courage to hit on her. She can tell he’s debating whether he will get lucky with just one drink. She continues her assessment of the crowd. The bouncer is carding everyone under the age of forty at the door; a few are upset at the intrusion; most are flattered. A green-colored drink comes her way but it’s not from the scraggly fellow; the bartender nods in the direction of the young, well-tanned, blonde stud at the end of the bar. She glances at the blonde, arches an eyebrow in unspoken question, and receives a smile back from him in return. She nods her head, smiles, and then holds the emerald liquid up in the air as she nods and takes a sip of the amber liquid and demurely lowers her gaze. She can see he is elbowing his way through the crowds to the just vacated spot next to her at the bar.
She thinks he will make a tasty morsel.
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