I was the victim of a drive-by flirting. It started with an observation without intent. The woman at the bar had a Betty Boop beer cozy. I commented on it. She smiled and told me the story of her life as a Betty and showed me her Bettie Page tattoo.
It was when she pulled down her shirt, exposing the majority of her left breast, that I noticed one of her fingers was a stub. I laughed when her story of its loss mirrored my father’s loss of the same finger.
She grabbed my thigh, “let’s go.” I said no.