Under CoversBy: Kayti McGee
“I swear to Jack Daniels, if we don’t get anything above a goddamn five in the next three minutes, I’m finding a new bar.” Jane huffs and throws her purse on the table.
“We just sat down. Give it a minute,” I yell over the swelling chorus of a ridiculous pop song that I secretly want to belt out, but won’t. This is my first time out in a bar since the semester started, my very first, and I’m not sure what’s acceptable. I can rock Hot Teacher, but is it still Hot Teacher when I know every word to every Carly Rae song? “They send the duds as scouts to check out the women before revealing the best of their kind.”
“This is why you’re the teacher. You know things.”
“I do know things, Janie. Like I know that nursing pays a good sight better than teaching, which actually probably makes you the smarter of the two of us.”
“Have you seen Dr. Combover? Nothing pays enough to deal with him. At least the teenagers you work with are actual teenagers and don’t just act like it.” Jane takes another sip of her cosmo and surveys the door. We drink cosmos ironically, by the way, in a nod to all the episodes of Sex in the City we secretly watched at sleepovers when her mom was asleep. “Goddammit. He’s a three.”
I check out the newest dude-bro to enter the bar. “That’s…mean.”
“Tell me I’m lying. Tell me.”
“I’m just saying, three is a little harsh.” Accurate maybe…but harsh. I’d give him a pity four, mostly because he’s wearing a shirt with Kylo Ren on it.
“Come on, Montclair. Tell me I’m lying!”
I stare down at my glass for a moment. There isn’t nearly enough booze in this puppy, which annoys me. Also annoying: Our favorite bartender Donna quitting our New Year’s tradition, leaving me and Jane alone to rate everything with a penis, with only these new (and stoned) bartenders and their subpar drinks for company.
First world problems, Melissa, I remind myself.
“Maybe we should find a new bar,” I say, in a stroke of pure genius. “Maybe figure out where Donna went.”
“Exactly. Ex-fucking-actly. Oh, look, a four.”
“He kinda looks like Trevor…”
Jane shudders and takes a dainty sip. “Okay, so he’s a two.”
“Hey!” I throw a bow at her while trying to wave down the bartender. If a Trevor look-alike is going to be in here, I’m going to need something stronger than this pathetic excuse for a cocktail. “Trevor wasn’t unattractive, just an asshole. Can I get another cosmo, please?”
Not-Donna nods all non-committal and wanders off to the next group shoving singles in her face. There are days I want to punch my students in the throat (well, two of them for sure, three more hover on the junk-punch list), but at least they don’t wave money at me like a prostitute. Then again, Not-Donna probably makes double my salary. Heavy sigh.
“False. Trevor was unattractive because he was an asshole. Hence, two.” Jane rifles through her purse for a cigarette. Have you ever noticed how many nurses smoke? I have a theory that they secretly have the cure for cancer and just aren’t sharing it. “And you’re at least a seven, so you clearly don’t belong with a two.”
“At least a seven. Thanks.” I slurp my drink loudly. “I’d say I’m at least a solid eight.” I slurp again and cross my eyes.
“Keep drinking, and you’ll be a ten, sweet cheeks.”
I roll my eyes and watch the door. “Oh my god, speaking of tens…”
Jane whips around and her jaw drops, and I know my expression must mirror her own. The bar’s new occupant is tall as hell, maybe 6’3 or even 6’5, muscular in a way that says soccer player instead of football player, with dark hair brushed back, piercing green eyes, and the kind of stubble I would like to ride. Basically, he’s a dead ringer for my favorite baseball player, Eric Hosmer.
Not that I’m currently envisioning sitting on his face, because a fledgling history teacher like myself would never inappropriately fantasize about a stranger’s huge dick, (because surely he would have one given how achingly tall he is,) especially not in the middle of a crowded bar where my moans would be heard by countless drunks looking to score on New Year’s Eve.