The extremely hot older woman I’d been admiring had finally finished her glass of red wine. I’d sidled over to offer to buy her another, like I’d been waiting to do for 20 minutes. She asked my name. I was flustered and blurted out my nickname — and she laughed. I wanted to go crawl under a rock.

Crestfallen, I started to shuffle away from where she sat at the bar. Her hand came down on mine, clamping it to the wooden bar top. She was surprisingly strong.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was rude. I’ve just never met a man who was named… Beaver.” Her voice was cool. She teased out the words in a kind of hypnotic way.

“My friends call me that. I don’t much like my real first name,” I explained.

Her hand was still on... Leer Más