I was suckin’ down a few drinks, one light, one dark, just to even out my ulcer, when this chick approaches me.  I’m thinking she digs me, turns out it was just the bartender asking me to get off the bar.  That’s cool, some bartenders can be anal about their space.  I fell in love with this one simply because we had a barrier between us from the start.

It was the Palms Friday nightclub, called Hot Box.  All kinds of psychedelic material draped the walls accented by glamorous lighting and special effects.  Everyone was having a blast, but suddenly I felt this gravitational pull to another end of the solar system.  Uranus would be too easy, I’m thinking Neptune.

That’s when I saw her. I knew she wasn’t with the two chicks she was seated by because they were kissing without her.

This girl was smokin’ hot. Lean body, jeans, white T, tucked tightly against her buoyant breasts. High cheek bones.  Spanish or French.  She had this young Joan Baez look that made me want to cry her a river.  Bedroom eyes that moved so slowly from the floor to my face I thought she wanted me to offer her a light.  Perhaps, I should have sensed that she was engaged to be married to a man.  She was, of course, bisexual.

“I have a tattoo.” She said abruptly while she sipped her Apple Martini.

“Really?” I feigned being shocked.

“Guess where it is.”  She said, flirting mercilessly in that I’m-straight-but-fucking-chicks-doesn’t-count, sort of way.

“Um, your ankle?” I guessed hopefully.

“No, guess again.”

“Your pelvic bone?”

“Nope.” She said, with growing enthusiasm at the prospect of our conversation traversing her body.

“Your back?” I guessed again.

“No. My arm.” She pointed to where the tattoo was hidden underneath her shirt.

“Well, can I see?”  I said, feigning mild disinterest. Instead of raising her sleeve, she lowers her shirt from the collar revealing her neck, cleavage and shoulder. Fluidly drawn across her gorgeous olive skin, she reveals a word in Chinese script. “What does it say?”  I asked. And what do you think it said?  You’re thinking, how the fuck should I know?  It could have said anything.  Mother.  Sailor.  Some Sanskrit shit.

But no, it said, “Chaos.” Chaos! And me, being a Chaoligist. I study the effects of Chaos for a living.  The pays not so great but I get to see more chaos the way.  Chaos and personal finance have an inverse relationship. Anyway, I launched into this whole dissertation on Chaos theory.  She was impressed.  I think. We had an affair for a while, but the little anecdotes about her fiancée were always ruining the mood.   She couldn’t be present when she was with me and said her guy had the same complaint.  Eventually she hooked up with another girl and married her instead.  I miss her to this day.  But somehow, missing her feels better than actually being with her.