RHS

I took the quiz and it said I was red hot. The letters were big and bold and red and I felt they were true. The comments and opinions sounded real, real women, first names and last initials, modern love for modern men. And I scored in the top bracket, the high end, the red hot. I, the quiz confirmed, am a red hot lover.

I didn't feel like a red hot lover. I didn't feel like some Don Juan. A piece of paper that says you're a thing doesn't mean a thing unless you got something to back that thing up. If I know what to do, all the moves, all the words, that only gives me so much. I have to put up the rest.

"Red hot, huh?" Why was I doing this out in public?

"Oh, uh." She was pretty. Red hair. Lots of red happening tonight. "Yeah, I guess," I laughed.

"You leave that quiz out in all the bars?"

"No, no. Just doing it to pass the time." She seemed to believe me, which was good because it was the truth.

"Those quizzes aren't written by real women, you know. Not real women."

"I know," I said. Did I? "Like I said. Just passing the time."

She sat down. "Mind if I pass the time with you?"

"No. Please. Do. Bartender?"

He walked over. "What'll you have?"

"A Redheaded Slut."

"Make that two." A little sweet for my taste. But my taste hasn't done much for me yet.