Tonight, I spit in someone's food at the PIZZA DIVE. It was a salad, and I watched the guy finish the whole thing.

Afterwards, I went out drinking at a crowded bar with my beautiful little sister who has slaved at restaurants for years. ""Oh, I've done that plenty of times.'' She admitted when I told her that I felt a bit guilty for spitting in the guy's salad. "If someone treats me like shit, I'll spit in their Coke.'' She continued. ""But they have to be real assholes.''

Her admission surprised me. For one, she's an angel; I'd have never expected such venom from her. Though she is the one of us who's done jail time. But also, she's all laughter, all the time; I assumed she'd have some humor-based coping mechanism to help her through the not-so-rare times when customers treat her badly. Not that spitting in someone's Coke isn't humorous. I'm sure she laughs when she does it. "This one time this guy was being a real asshole and I spit in his water. But it was so thick that I couldn't stir it in.'' She told me through breathless laughter. "It turned into a little spit tornado with bits of food in it. It was too obvious, so I had to dump it out and give the guy a fresh glass.''

If a server spit in the food of everyone that treated them badly, that server would have a dry mouth by the end of any work evening. When customers abuse me, I just chuckle and slow down the pace at which I serve them. Being treated poorly doesn't bother me, I just neglect them if they act like jerks. The thought of spitting in anyone's food hadn't crossed my mind until tonight. This guy earned it by wearing a T-shirt I didn't like: a picture of a Confederate rebel flag flying from the dome of the White House. Underneath was the slogan, 'I Have A Dream.' So I spit in his salad on my way through the kitchen, then pushed it around a bit to hide it in the wet iceberg lettuce and Malaka dressing. On the bar patio tonight after work, my sister told me I shouldn't feel guilty, and as we laughed, I spotted a blond woman inside whom I had seen at a few concerts. I'd wanted to talk to her for months but couldn't. Tonight she was looking at me. Or glancing. Then she glanced away. Then she looked back. I wonder what women think is going on between me and my sister, before they know we're related? Do we look like boyfriend and girlfriend? Do we look a couple, who get along better than any couple they've ever seen? Laughter and love? Is that why women never hit on me? I left my sister out on the patio and went in to get another beer and perhaps try to grow a pair and approach the blonde woman.

I watched the band and walked toward the bar and between me and the band was a redheaded woman sitting on a bench in the dark and we made eye contact as I passed. I don't know how I can spot a redhead across a crowded courtyard, in the dark: but I can. Like cats in the tall grass, I can detect my own kind in any visibility. I lovingly held her gaze longer than I normally would have. I normally would have given in to shyness and looked away thinking frantically: "Was she looking at me? What should I do?". But it's been different lately, since deciding to move: I feel careless confidence and what have I got to lose?: I'm leaving in two months. So I nodded to her and smiled on route the bar, and once inside, away from her, my heart pounded faster.

I went to the bar, next to the blonde woman, but she was attached to a pack of women. I have a hard enough time dealing with one at a time. So, once again, I couldn't muster up, but swore I would, at some point in the evening. I hate regrets. I can't accumulate any more. They don't allow that much baggage on the train I'm taking to San Francisco. Or maybe they do, but I'm sure it costs extra. And I can't afford it.

Later I found myself standing in front of the loud band, and I was drunk. The 72 degree breeze on the patio hinted at my last Florida winter and I was happier than average to be at the bar but also sad because Florida was being so nice and I know I will miss it terribly. My sister stood beside me with her boyfriend and their friend and their friend's dog (they allow dogs at outdoor Florida bars). Their friend had been found the dog long ago; a beaten stray beagle-type dog, with perpetually sad, lowered eyes. The loud band wasn't helping the dog's nervous constitution; it looked extra nervous. Its owner, their friend, told me that the dog helped him meet a lot of women. Looking me in the eye, he explained: "I just let out the slack on her leash.'' He demonstrated, unrolling the nylon leash from his knuckles, still looking at me, not at the dog, who wandered off as the leash was let out. "And then I reel her back in.'' He began taking in the slack and a sure enough, there was a woman on the end, petting the dog. It was amazing. She stood up and looked at Sean. "Is this your dog?'' She asked him.

The blonde woman was next to me, on the opposite side from my sister, watching the band and dancing slightly. Her hair looked natural but stylish. It looked as if it would smell good: very healthy. She smiled at me, came closer and asked me: ""Don't I know you?'' I feel self-conscious using that line. But like most men; I don't care what line is used on me. We chatted and I looked over her shoulder around the bar, faking disinterest.

My sister snuck the smoke around, I got high and self-conscious and eventually my long-awaited conversation with the blonde woman with nice hair was reduced to acknowledging glances over the loud rock band..

At one point the band paused and the blonde woman turned and asked me 'what are you doing?' "I'm drinking a beer." She rolled her eyes. "Oh, with my life?" The band began again and I screamed her the pertinent information. "I write for the newspaper and I work at a restaurant. What do you do with your life?"

"I study dance at USF."

"Really! Awesome!" Overzealous. She stepped back, half-mocking, half-real.

I calmed. Embarrassed. "No, I just think that's cool. Art is cool." It's rare to meet women who are into art, out at bars, in Florida. I usually meet restaurant workers. She smiled and rubbed my arm. Comforting. The music seemed quieter for a second. I looked across the courtyard and made eye contact with the red-haired woman again. She now wore black rimmed glasses. She waved to me: no woman has ever done that. Something is amiss in my life recently. Fuck yeah. I waved back shyly and my sister noticed and punched me in the arm and yelled something in my ear about "blah blah blah PUSSY!".

Soon after, the 60-hour workweek kicked in and I was tired and needed to leave. I needed to sleep. First, I went inside the bar and grabbed a pen and a blank receipt. On the back was printed in big block letters, the faded words

and underneath; PLEASE COME AGAIN.

I tried to write neatly. "I just wanted to…" I wrote above THANK YOU. "…for introducing yourself to me. It's something I've wanted to do the last four times I've seen you out." I scratched out PLEASE COME AGAIN and continued underneath. "We should go out some time and talk. For real. It's loud here. We can talk about art and stuff. Plus you have nice hair.' And then my home phone number. And my number at the newspaper.

I waded through the dense crowd loud music and pleasant pre-winter breeze to the front of the stage and handed the receipt to the blonde woman. ""You wrote me a letter!'' She grabbed me and we nodded to each other and smiled and touched randomly and I walked away with hope in my heart.

On the way out I searched out the red-haired woman and said goodbye and hello and asked her her name. "Echo.'' I thought she said. "Nice to meet you, I noticed you were a redhead from across the room.'' I touched her hair. ""I gotta go.'' She grabbed me and said soberly, "Nooooo.''

"I have to go." I said, more stunned than rushed. I wait all my life for things like this to happen and then it freaks me out so badly that I run off. "O.K. Goodbye." She said and sighed. She was a beautiful redhead woman. Freckles on her chest. I ran.

My friend Aaron stopped me on the way out the door. As he and I bonded over drunken good-byes, I reconsidered the red-haired woman. Though I was scared, I knew I'd regret leaving the possible adventure behind, so when Aaron and I were finished, I walked back inside and found Echo. "Do you want to walk me to my truck?' I began to ask her as she stood up and took my hand and shouted. "Yes!!!'

On the way to the car we cooed and she treated me like I was her dream boy and I found myself walking fast because I didn't know what else to do. It was a long long way across Ybor City to my truck. My body seemed to want to get it over with, so I walked fast, but my loud voice in my head was telling me to slow down and enjoy this moment since it'd never happened before and it was likely it'd never happen again. I knew that someday I'd wish the moment had lasted longer. "Am I walking too fast for you?" "No. Don't worry." She answered, dumping her blue eyes all over me like a bucket of cold water. She shivered in the 70-degree wind and I could tell she wanted me to put my arm around her but I didn't have the guts. I told her I was moving to someplace I'd never been. She told me I was brave. I lied and told her that I was leaving in a week and that I didn't have a phone. I'm not sure why I did that.

We reached the car and I drove her back to the bar. "You're driving pretty fast." She mentioned, giving me all her attention. 'Because I don't know what else to do,' would have been the only honest answer I could have given. I stopped the car outside the bar and I could hear the band inside even with the windows up. I leaned over to kiss her goodnight. We'd known each other for 15 minutes. The kiss lasted three seconds and I broke away from her before my reflexes took over. I said goodnight. "One more" she said. One more. I drove off stunned and feeling like another person in different clothes, with a different hairline and a different physique and a place I needed to get to.

Love,
Michael