Chapter 1

I don't remember the exact date I first saw her, but it was probably a Tuesday, because at the time Tuesday was really the only day I had available for drinking. It's shocking how much of an effect graduating from college and having a real job can have on the amount of time a person spends partying per week, but it does.

So, if it was a Tuesday and I was drinking then I would most certainly have been at Pablo's. Pablo's Tavern is the place my buddies from the music department and I used to hang out, back in our undergrad days. Since graduation however, I was pretty much the only one of the gang still hanging around campus, so I drank alone.

I know that sounds pathetic. I don't think it is, but maybe I'm wrong. I always used to laugh at people who just couldn't leave school, for whatever reason, so I suppose at first glance it is pretty sad, but it wasn't... not really. Like a few people I knew, I floated aimlessly for a few months after graduation, living life as I had during college and basically ignoring any grownup responsibilities I might have had. I told people I was setting aside a few weeks to "discover myself," although I'm pretty sure my father didn't much care for my rationalization.

So, I wasted the summer after my senior year. I finally came to the decision, based more on my lack of motivation in the workplace than any real desire to better myself, to return to school. A couple of my music professors, and my advisor Dr. Bergerud in particular, had made it clear that if I began my post-graduate studies in the fall I would have an office in the music department and would be the highest paid graduate assistant on campus.

So, what wasn't to like about that offer? As it turned out... a lot.

Dr. Bergerud is a great guy, he really is. He knows his music theory forwards and backwards, has a mind made for history and is a very good choir director, but he's absolutely horrible with grading papers. So the highest paid graduate assistant on campus spent most of the first semester grading Intro To Music papers. I don't mind grading papers, but Dr. Bergerud assigns a five-page paper each week. But I slogged through as best I could, even managing to find time to study for my own advanced theory and literature classes.

So my first semester back in school was a lot busier than I had expected. It certainly wasn't horrible, but it wasn't all that fun either, which is what probably led me back to Pablo's in the first place. I needed some way to relieve the stress in my life, and since most of my friends had moved on after graduation, I felt alone. So I became a regular at the tavern.

I had never been a huge drinker when I was working on my undergraduate degree, probably because I was a poor college student and soda is infinitely cheaper than alcohol, so I never really acquired a taste for it. That all changed once I got out in the real world, and that frightened me a little bit. I spent enough of my Tuesday evenings sitting at a bar stool at Pablo's to know that I didn't want to end up like the rest of the fat, pathetic drunks who frequented the place. But drinking alone in my apartment seemed far worse, so there I was.

Pablo's Tavern is a fairly nice dive, as far these kind of places go, although it's definitely not one of the newer family-style bar and restaurants. And as far as I know, there is no Pablo. Billy is the regular bartender and at six and a half feet and as black as coal he'll never be confused with Pablo, and all the waitresses are as white as I am, but what do you expect in Omaha?

So maybe with no Pablo, and in fact nothing even remotely Hispanic about the place, there's somewhat of a truth in advertising issue, but it's no big deal. What's important is that Pablo's is a place a guy can go to forget all his troubles. As long as you've got a wallet and can manage to stay mostly vertical in your chair, the bartender will be happy to keep your glass full.

And I've noticed that buying a couple of roses doesn't hurt either, and that was a new thing since graduation. It seems in the few months I was away, Pablo's acquired a new set of working girls. When I say "working girls," I mean just that... working girls. Not hookers, but girls, mainly college age, who walked around the bar selling roses to the bar's patrons.

Don't ask me why the girls are there. They just are. The girls are always dressed nicely, and generally you'll never see them drink while they're on the "job." Pablo's is pretty big, so usually two or three girls will be working at once, wandering through the drunk and lonely people, selling long-stemmed roses.

And that's all they do. I had always wondered if they were selling the flowers to raise money for a charity, or if this is just another way for the bar to make money, but I've learned that's not the case. The girls sell roses to make a bit of extra cash, and if drunk guys feel guilty and buy a couple for their wife or girlfriend at home, so much the better. It's all about money.

Like I said though, after I realized that Billy and the rest of the bartenders seemed a bit more relaxed and easy going once I'd bought a couple flowers, I usually did just that. Who knows, maybe the girls kick a bit of money back to the bar for the privilege. I never asked.

For weeks during the beginning of the school year I had been seeing this one particular girl and was just fascinated by her. I never managed to talk with her, but each Tuesday when I sat down for my drinks she caught my eye. We had our first contact in October, shortly after fall break.

From a distance what had caught my eye was her hair. I've always been a sucker for a long cascade of hair running down a girl's back, and this girl's mane of auburn hair seemed to be made for me. All I could imagine was running my fingers through it. She was dressed like the rest of the flower girls who worked the bar, but to my eyes she looked far better than they could ever hope to look.

On most of the girls, the short black skirts and tuxedo shirts with the top three or four buttons undone looked foolish, like little girls playing dress-up, but on her... well, it was something else. On her the clothes looked nothing less than sexy and I had a quick flashback, remembering my high school prom and how my date had looked as we relaxed after making love on the couch in my living room. My girlfriend at the time had dressed in just my tuxedo shirt and the memory of her long legs peeking out from under the tails of the shirt was one of my only good memories of our time together.

Like my high school sweetheart, this girl had long, wavy auburn hair that fell in loose curls down to the small of her back, nearly to the upper curve of her ass. But where my old girlfriend had packed on a few extra pounds, this girl was slim without being skinny, and for her small frame had rather large breasts.

I'm not a good judge of a woman's bra size, so I can't tell you what her actual size was... because I just can't tell. But who knows... she was a tiny girl, far shorter than my six feet, so maybe her breasts just looked big on her.

But it was the hair that caught my attention. At least from a distance. Once I saw her up close, it was her face that grabbed me. She had the smoothest skin and the most kissable pair of pink lips I had ever seen, but it was her eyes that really did it. Here eyes were what did me in.

I was sitting on my bar stool, nursing my second and final scotch of the night when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and almost lost myself in the liquid emerald of her eyes.

"Buy a rose, mister?" she asked and I glanced down to see the typical basket of pink and red flowers cradled in her arms.

"What the hell," I shrugged. I hadn't bought any yet that night and they were cheap. Like I said, I'm pretty sure the bar had some sort of deal set up with the girls so I was always willing to chip in a few bucks. "Give me a couple of the red ones," I said.

"Thanks!" she grinned. The girl's face brightened visibly with my words and I pulled a couple bills out of my wallet to finalize the purchase. We made our exchange and I found myself holding two red roses with no place to put them.

"Billy," I called down the bar. "Can I get a glass of water for my flowers?" Billy looked up from the other end of the bar and nodded. He brought me a tall plastic cup, half filled with water and I placed the roses inside. I returned to my drink, startled when moments later I felt another tap on my shoulder. I turned to see the flower girl standing behind me once more.

"Thanks," she said, nodding to the roses. "I saw what you did with the flowers. It's kind of sad to see most of the roses die. A lot of guys just buy them because they think we'll bug them if they don't. And they usually just leave them on the bar, and they wither up and get thrown out."

"They're very pretty," I said.

"So, I just wanted to say thanks," the girl said, turning to go.

I smiled as she left, waving as she returned to her rounds. I drained the last of my now diluted drink and stood to go, feeling a little guilty. The girl had been right about people buying the flowers out of a sense of duty, and I was normally one of those guys who left the roses on the bar but tonight I decided to take mine home with me. Careful not to spill the water, I picked up my cup and walked to the door.

The girl was selling to a table near the entrance and she waved as she saw me leaving, smiling brightly as I held up my cup of flowers. I pushed my way into the cool of the November night, wishing I'd decided to go to school somewhere a bit more tropical than Omaha. Mindful of the fragile flowers I held in my hand I hurried to my car, which sputtered to life with a cough and a gasp and I drove the two miles back to my apartment.

I groaned as I flicked on the lights, seeing the living room exactly as I'd left it. I kept hoping I would return one day and everything would magically have straightened itself into something resembling order, but it wasn't to be. It was a mess... dirty clothes on the couch, a pizza box on the floor and sheets of music writing paper strewn haphazardly around the room.

I picked up the pizza box, grimacing as I remembered it was still there from Saturday night. If I wasn't careful I would soon have an ant problem and I promised myself to spend some quality time cleaning up my mess in the morning before my first class.

I set the roses on my kitchen table, leaning over to smell their aroma. I closed my eyes and to my surprise saw nothing but the face of the girl from the bar. I sighed, knowing that to her I was more than likely just another bar patron, and probably not worth a second thought. I stripped out of my clothes and went to my bedroom to get ready for bed.

Once in bed, the vision of the girl's perfect face floated through my memory and I found myself becoming erect at the thought of her smooth skin and supple young body. I reached down to tug at my stiffening prick and stroked myself to the fantasy of the girl and I rolling around on my living room floor surrounded by millions of rose petals.

My orgasm came with a rush and I felt my hand and chest suddenly coated with my semen. I reached over the side of the bed and grabbed a sock off the floor to wipe the mess from my skin. The image of the girl's face was still with me as I drifted off to sleep, my last thought one of disappointment as I realized I didn't even know her name.

I rolled out of bed the next morning surprisingly refreshed, considering the late evening I'd had the previous night. Wednesday is always a rough day for me. Dr. Bergerud has three morning classes and for some reason wants to meet with me before he lectures, ostensibly to go over his notes and overhead transparencies. I've never understood why he feels the need, since he usually just shows his teaching aids to me and I agree that they're fine, but whatever, I guess. Maybe he just wants the practice, although you'd think that after thirty years of teaching he'd have it down by now.

"Morning," I said as I walked into his office.

"Dan," he nodded from behind his desk. I waited as he finished typing something into his computer. He finished after a moment and looked up at me. He appeared ready to say something when his head cocked to one side and he stared at me for a few moments. I stood there, unsure what he was thinking when suddenly he shook his head and laughed as he stood up.

"What?" I asked, curious as to his good mood, unusual for such an early morning.

"Nothing, nothing," he said, still laughing gently as he gathered his books. "Just glad to see that one of us is so happy." Without another word he slipped past me into the hallway, whistling a John Phillip Sousa tune as he walked down the hall.

Me? Happy? I thought about it but couldn't think of any reason I was any happier today than I'd been all week. I figured the big guy was just getting older, and that made me sad. Dr. Bergerud had been a staple at my school for as long as I could remember, and I'd grown up in this town so I'd known of him my whole life. He was an institution around these parts - in fact I think he may have been the first choir director at the school - but the rumor mill had him retiring at the end of this school year, although he hadn't said anything to me.

I laughed, before realizing that the pile of ungraded essays was my morning's work. I thought about taking the stack of papers to my tiny office, but decided against it and sat down at the professor's desk, preparing for the mind-numbing procession of lofty ideas and poorly-worded rationalizations from this semester's group of freshmen.

I was half finished with the essays when Dr. Bergerud returned from his first class, obviously surprised to see me in his spot.

"Sorry," I said, quickly rising from his chair.

"No, stay where you are," he said, waving me back.

"You sure?" I asked.

"It's not a problem," he assured me. "I'll just grab my coat and go for a walk. Maybe some young gal will catch my eye. Then won't we be the pair!" he laughed as he walked out of his office. I could still hear his chuckle as he strolled down the hall.

I shook my head in puzzlement, trying to understand what he might be talking about and went back to grading papers.

The rest of the week was more of the same for me. I graded papers when I had time between my own classes and occasionally met with students from the professor's classes when he was unavailable. I was beginning to realize that being Dr. Bergerud's graduate assistant wasn't much more than being a glorified teaching aide, but the money and opportunity to study for my post-graduate degree more than made up for the lowly work required of me.

By the time the weekend rolled around I was more than ready to unwind. Foregoing my usual weekend ritual of staying at home and studying I decided to try and reconnect with old friends. The football team was playing its Homecoming game on Saturday and a few buddies of mine were going to be back in town.

Bobby Harmon, Pete Taylor and I had been a tight-knit trio the year before, all three of us certified choir geeks, but had lost contact after graduation. I was the only one still close to campus since Bobby had moved back to his hometown in Iowa to work in his father's law office, while Pete had moved to Chicago after completing his engineering degree. Both of them were going to be back in Omaha this weekend, and I was really looking forward to seeing them again.