Page 69 of This Is Who I Am

“What are you doing in Clearwater Bay?” I ask, happy for the distraction of small talk.

“Visiting a friend.”

“Where’s your friend?”

“At her house. Dinner ran long. I wanted to stretch my legs before bed and saw this cute place on the beach. I couldn’t resist.”

I take another sip. “Is it awful to ask how old you are, Bijou?” What kind of name is Bijou, anyway? But I’m too tipsy to question it further.

She shakes her head as though women in LA are extremely forthcoming about how old they really are. “I’m forty-one.”

“Good age. Hold on to that.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m fifty-three and it royally sucks ass.”

“Good to know,” she says, a smile in her voice. “I’ll keep that in mind for in a decade or so.”

“Look at me,” I say, barely noticing that the self-pity phase of drunkenness has well and truly set in. “I’m a menopausal mess. No wonder she left me.”

“She?” Bijou nods. “I can work with that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” She puts her hand on my arm. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just a little tipsy, that’s all.”

“You don’t know me.”

“True enough. That’s usually how I like it.”

“Like what?” I’m so far gone, I can barely still decode what she’s saying.

“I saw you sitting all by yourself at the bar and I came to sit next to you,” Bijou says. “What does that tell you?”

My foggy brain considers her question. “That you wanted some company.”

“Sure, but not just anyone’s company. A beautiful woman’s company.”

She’s lucky I didn’t just take a sip or I would have sprayed margarita all over her. I look around me ostentatiously, because either this is some scam I’m too drunk to see through or she’s actually talking about someone else.

“Yeah. Okay. Goodnight.” I turn away from her. As far as I know, no one has ever been punked at The Bay at midnight, but there’s a first time for everything.

“You’re very alluring.” Bijou’s voice is so smooth and sweet, I almost want to believe her. But I have a mirror and I see with my own eyes every day that I’m neither beautiful nor alluring.

“What is this?” I pivot toward her again. All I see is that kind, sultry smile on her face.

“I’m doing a really bad job of flirting with you.” Bijou looks me straight in the eye.

“Flirting? With me?” I know that Estelle didn’t break up with me because I’m overweight and sweaty most of the time and I wouldn’t be caught dead in a wetsuit, but still, in my muddled drunken brain, she might as well have.

“Yes, ma’am,” Bijou says and the whole thing—her words and the situation—is so weird I burst out laughing.

“See,” she says. “You’re gorgeous when you laugh. I knew it.”

I laugh some more and forget about this being a possible prank. I might as well enjoy it, even if it is some sort of twisted delusion.

“You’re very pretty.” If ever there was a lame attempt at flirting back.

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