“I think I’ll call you Juliet.” It was his best pick-up line, which he accentuated by sliding his business card towards the blonde bombshell Hollywood bars were known to attract. Romeo M, the name at the bottom read, his cell phone number strategically scrawled on the back before the start of the night.
The girl’s only response was a cursory glance in his direction, a cockeyed expression painted on her face, and a return to her order. He didn’t dare push the matter; she was out of his league anyway, most likely going back to a table occupied by professional athletes. The thought was comforting.
She walked away and Romeo recycled his business card. He hadn’t paid much for the few he had printed out, but it seemed like such a waste to let the card soak in spilled tequila and imported beer. He turned back to his glass and realized it was empty so he pulled out his wallet to grab some more cash, but only found a week old receipt.
Unable to leave a tip, he slipped out of his chair and crept out of the bar. Outside he spotted the bombshell, drink in hand, approaching a pasty faced youth with wildly tousled hair and eyes like the dead. Romeo was the best lover the world had ever seen and he was doomed to spend the night alone, his left hand the only witness to the quality of his love.
