I spent a sizeable chunk of the day moping about, thinking about how the whole thing with Monica ended on such a sour note. Generally speaking, I’m not a moper; I don’t dwell on the details and the might’ve beens, and I don’t romanticize about what amounts pretty much to a relationship gone wrong. I laid about a bit with Sophia, and being Sunday I flipped on a little Fox NFL. I can’t wait until the Chargers come to L.A They’re just on the cusp of becoming something, and will continue to progress. Hopefully that timeline coincides with their move up the 5 freeway and we Angelinos will be treated to an instant champion, kind of like what the city of Denver experienced when they imported the Nordiques from Quebec and renamed the team the Avalanche.

After watching a quarter of a lousy Cardinals – Bills game, I had enough. Monica’s scent still permeated everything in the apartment, which only made me think more about her, so I needed to get out for a little while the place aired out. I fed Sophia, and then headed for Townhouse.

It’s a little unsettling how I find myself going to Townhouse following the beginning or end of a relationship. I meet a woman and we hit it off, I go to Townhouse. I call things off weeks later and again I’ll be at Townhouse. It was without fail, a place to celebrate personal changes, to mark beginnings or ends. Townhouse was my rock, my anchor, my co-dependent.

I pulled into the rear driveway and parked in a spot close to the door. Upon entering I found the place near empty. Nick is here, as is a small group of people I don’t recognize, and of course Lisa, manning her usual position behind the bar. Lisa smiles as I enter and cleans off a spot front and center for me.

“Thanks,” I say, taking the seat. “How’s your Bloody Mary’s been lately?”

“My Bloody Marys are just fine, baby,” she says, then raising her voice for Nick to hear, “It’s just that SOME people are very critical about how they want their drink!”

Nick pipes up from his table: “Don’t listen to a word of it Reed, her Bloody Mary stinks!”

“You’re free to get it from any other bar, Nick,” fires Lisa right back.

“Don’t think I don’t!” he responds.

Interjecting, I try to reel Lisa back in. “I’ll take my chances. Fire up your best, and go a little heavier than normal on the worcestershire , okay?”

“Somebody have a rough Halloween party?” Lisa asks.

“Yeah, I’m still working off the last remnants of a hangover.”

“And your friend who was a date but not a date? How’d that go?”

“Not so hot. No, not well at all. You were right. Everybody in here was right. Don’t mix business and pleasure. I knew it. She wanted to, however.”

“And you didn’t fuck her first?” Nick asks.

“Gee, you’re such a romantic,” Lisa says. Despite the dark room I can see her eyes rolling as she says this.

“No Nick, I didn’t. Didn’t get the chance, though in hindsight that would have made a bad situation even worse.”

“How could it have been worse? You would have got laid,” Nick explains.

“Easy,” says Lisa, with a little bit of that head-bob Black women often do, “let’s say you have sex with a woman and she gets pregnant. Do you say ‘it’s not so bad, I got to have sex with her first?’ You guys can be so dumb.”

“Don’t group me in with Johnny Walker back there,” I say. “You’re very testy this afternoon. What gives?”

“Well, for the first time in a long time I was going to actually get out of here by 7 or 8, you know, at a respectable time considering the hours I keep,” Lisa begins. That’s when I get a closer look at her outfit. She’s wearing a nicer outfit than usual: Tight, black miniskirt, bare, recently waxed legs, nice pumps – not the "fuck me" type – but with a decent-sized spike on them, and a bluish-black top with a plunging neckline showing more than a fair share of cleavage. Lisa’s hair is done up more than usual – more hair product, teasing, and all-around effort than a woman would put into her looks on any other day – and she’s adorned her ears with some chandelier-style earrings, to slim the total appearance and draw the eyes towards the middle of neck and back to her boobs, which don’t exactly need help being noticed.

I stand somewhat in my chair and a big grin appears on my face as I point at her. “You had a date tonight, didn’t ya."

“Yeah, I had a date tonight. The guy called me a little over an hour ago to tell me he had to reschedule. Had to work late tonight is what he said. Maybe he’s just blowing me off for somebody younger and hotter.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, “unless this guy is some dude you met over the internet who’s never gazed upon your beauty - and knowing how you work I’d say that’s not the case - then he’s obviously an idiot. I could grab 10 guys off the street right now guarantee every last one would want to date you.”

“You’re just trying to cheer me up. I appreciate it, but you’re in that spin mode you advertising people get into.”

“No way, not me sister,” I reply. “And with the way you look in that outfit tonight, I’d hit it. I’m just sayin'.’”

“Amen!” says Nick from behind us, glass held in the air in toast fashion.

“Reed! Both of you actually, you guys are pervs. Always got sex on the mind,” Lisa responds.

“Well you and I commiserate together, because not only did last night go badly, I ended another just this afternoon. Rather badly in fact.”

“Another?” asks Lisa, her forehead and nose wrinkling a bit as what little she knew of my womanizing replayed in her head. “Would this be the married one?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t pretty. She started talking about mutual exclusivity, and that’s when I told her I knew she was married. I didn’t try to sugarcoat it or nothing. I told her I saw the letter.”

“Wow, how did she respond?”

“She got angry over how I found out as expected, but she didn’t deny being married. Said she was already separated and the guy was living in another state. They were going through the divorce and she said there was no chance of a reconciliation. My timing sucked, but I had to bring it up then before she started going on to the L word and stuff like that.” I pause, then turn towards Nick. “And this one Nick, this one I fucked.”

“Right on!” he says, a ringing endorsement if I ever heard one.

Lisa shakes her head in disapproval. “So even though she now knew you knew, and was still talking about taking the relationship further, you dropped her?”

“I stopped it from going any further once the marriage and divorce were out in the open. I couldn’t go on with her, Lisa. I couldn’t continue dating this girl knowing the guy could show up on her doorstep, that her marriage wasn’t done and she hadn’t had her closure. It was really bugging me.”

“Bet it wasn’t bugging you when she was sexing you up,” Lisa responds in a huff.

“Funny, that’s what she said too.”

Lisa shakes her head and dunks some glasses into the washing mechanism in the sink. “You guys are all alike. It's not rocket science trying to figure you all out.”

I slowly drank my Bloody Mary over the next hour, learning more about the guy Lisa was convinced blew her off for the evening. He’s the beverage manager at a restaurant in Santa Monica, responsible for many of the same things as Lisa: Ordering and tracking stock, balancing the books each night, making sure the inventory isn’t being given out for free. Those sorts of things. But because this dude plied his trade in a plush restaurant where he didn't have to work behind the counter and Lisa plied hers at a bar, this guy earned a loftier title. Whatever. Regardless of title, he was befitting the rank of A-1 idiot for blowing off Lisa, if that’s what really happened.

Somewhere around my second Bloody Mary the crowd of unrecognizables left, leaving only Nick, Lisa and myself. Nick's usually three sheets to the wind by 5pm on any given day, and today was no different. I never minded Nick. He was a timid drunk; he didn’t get belligerent or wild when he had too much in him, nor would he turn into a human bile machine, spewing vomit everywhere. Nick would just get quiet and shut down. That’s all he’d do.

“Should we call him a cab?” I suggest.

“Naw, I generally give him another hour before shuffling him out the door. He needs a little sleep time.”

“So what is it with us?” I ask. “How come two decent-looking people like us are always without someone?”

“I am always without someone, dear. You seem to always be between people.”

“So I like to date them and have fun,” I respond, holding up my hand like I’m about to take an oath. “Guilty as charged.”

“Have fun," Lisa repeats in a mocking tone. "Your problem is that you don’t stick around long enough to know if they’re worth keeping or not,” counters Lisa.

“You can learn a lot about a person in just a few dates. There are no great secrets to uncover. Well, unless they’re married.” We both laugh.

We spent the next hour talking about all kinds of things, weaving in and out of topics and interests like a police car chasing down a suspect. Lisa likes to complain – about work, about life, about choices, about men – but I know she just wants to be heard. She’s like any of us. She wants to know there’s a person out there who can listen to her get things off her chest and then say “hey, I’ve been there, you’re not alone.”

At one point she asks me, "What's the dumbest thing you've ever done in a relationship? Beyond the normal things people do, I mean. People cheat, tell each other bold-faced lies. Besides all that, what's something you've said or done you can honestly look back on and think 'man, that was just dumb'?"

I think for a moment, taking short sips from what's left of my Bloody Mary. "There was this one girl - Denise - and I was at her place hooking up her new state-of-the-art satellite dish tuner to a new TV she'd just bought. All the shit was digital, and I was having a hard go of it. So I told her that I couldn't hook it all up. You should have seen her. She was beside herself. I mean, relationships are symbiotic, you know? Women can outfit men in clothes that match and look good, and men can hook up TVs and stereos for women. If you can't do that then what's the point of being in a relationship? I mean, if the guy can't hook up the electronics or go down on her properly, she'll think he's not keeping up his end of the deal."

Lisa just shook her head in disbelief. "You have a strange way of looking at things," she says.

"Whatever. Sweat the small stuff. What's yours?"

Lisa refilled her glass with whatever it was she was drinking (she kept it under the bar, out of sight), then looked around the room. It was just us. Two souls alone, cloaked in the darkness of the bar, hidden from the slivers of light from the stock room forcing their way into the center of the floor. It was a nice symbol of what we had. Two people. Alone, but together. Roaming in the darkness. Just on the cusp of seeing the light. I really have to stop reading Hemingway. More periods than a menstruating women's soccer team.

Lisa spoke up, sounding less serious than her normal self. "I once told a guy I couldn't continue to see him because his bathroom was a mess. Women need a guy who knows the value of a clean bathroom. A clean bathroom shows you have a sense of order. Any chick can walk into a guy's bathroom and instantly know all about him just by how well kept it is, if his supplies are well-stocked, and if he cleans it with some regularity."

I laugh. It's the first laugh I've had all day. "That's a pretty good one," I say. I finish the drink and when Lisa asks if I want another, I wave her off. Even though she tells me it's on the house, I politely refuse. I think I've had enough booze for the day. I stand up from my stool and saunter over to the jukebox in the corner. Nobody ever uses it. I don't even know if it's in working order, or plugged in for that matter.

"Whatcha doing?"

"Looking at the jukebox selections. Does this thing even work?" I ask.

"As far as I know. The bulb lighting up the cabin probably needs changing."

I fish around in my jeans for some change, then fire them one at a time into the machine, hearing a hollow plunk plunk as they go down. I squint to make out some of the writing on the rotating arms which surprisingly do still work. I dust off an area on the cabin for better viewing, then, spying my choice, key in the corresponding code.

"Wanna dance?" I say while the machine starts whirring behind me.

"Okay," Lisa softly replies.

In the center of the room, bathed mostly in darkness but showing off a dim glow from the storage room, we meet. The machine stops whirring and begins clicking as the music starts:

Do you remember when we met
That's the day I knew you were my pet
I want to tell you how much I love you
Come with me, my love
To the sea, the sea of love
I want to tell you how much I love you

It's not the original, it's the Robert Plant remake. I hold Lisa tight as we slowly move in and out of the lighted areas. She puts her head on my shoulder - no small task considering the woman is almost as tall as me - then pauses and kicks off her heels.

We sway in silence as the music fills the room. Lisa smells good, better than usual, and I can feel the rise and fall of her breasts on my chest. It's a little hurried, a little nervous. Then she lifts her head from my shoulder to look at me.

"Mmm, this is nice."

"Yeah, it is. Sorry the guy blew you off."

"Thanks. Sorry you had double the woman problems you normally have."

We dance around until the song ends, but when the music stops we continue to dance.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask Lisa.

"How this is nice, but would never work," she replies.

"I know. I'd like to think it could work, but you're right. You're Moneypenny to my James Bond. All I can do is lust after you, just as James does Moneypenny. That's why they never got together. If they did, the magic would disappear. They would just become another boring couple. Keep them lusting after each other and they are the perfect duo."

"Well, not exactly," Lisa says, "but I know what you're getting at." She drops her arms from around my neck and steps back, ready to resume real life. "I was convinced I'd be getting a good night kiss tonight, and one way or the other, I am going to at least have that." She leans in, closes her eyes, and kisses me softly, passionately, on the lips. All feeling. No tongue.

"There," she says, "for what might have been." She adjusts her hair, slips her heels back on, and returns to her normal spot behind the counter.

"Soooo," I begin, making my way back to the bar, "how do you think I should get over this latest one? How do I push her out of my head?"

"Why should you have to do that? You know what I do? I take a great memory from the relationship and hang on to that. Don't think of the bad stuff, or how it ended, think of one good thing, the one you remember most above the rest, and keep that as a happy thought in the back of your head, instantly recalled when you need a happy thought."

"Thanks, but I don't operate like that," I reply.

"It's never too late to start," Lisa responds.

I pay Lisa for the drinks - she doesn't want anything for them - but I wouldn't feel right taking her charity. I've had more than drinks tonight, and she's done far more than pour liquid from a bottle for me this evening. As I leave I suggest she still close early and go somewhere on the town, just for herself. She says she'll think about it, but I know she won't. Townhouse is her heaven as much as her purgatory.

Driving home I think about Monica, and to a lesser extent I think about Melinda. What draws me to women like that? Do I have some predisposition towards situations meant to fail? Is it an out I purposely create? I don't know. I could spend the next few weeks without dating anybody, but that's not how I do things. I bounce back from every short-lived relationship by diving into another right away. I'm serialistic like that. As I cruise through the stream of green lights aiding the drive home, I make the resolution to pack the next few weeks of my calendar with as many dates and rendevous as possible. Move quickly and cover a large area, just like machine gun fire. I fought off the hangover of last night's party. Now I had to fight off any hangover I may have from Monica.