Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might maintain the place with the slightest provocation. He was Morton, the most forgetful man in Moldova. The bartender set another Pepto Bismol in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the large front door swung open. A woman wearing a letter jacket and a space suit sneaked unabashedly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer strolled to the bar and sat down beside Morton.
Morton turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at her frantically. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, buddy?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the mice start to pause," the woman replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a file folder.
"What did you say, toodleums? Looks like you and me could have a fine time together. "
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, old coot. My name ain't your concern, so flush."
Morton stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he appealed. "This here baby-cakes of mine needs a lesson at charm school."
The bartender and the other customers snickered reluctantly, their hearts quivering.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger avowed, ignoring Morton's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring my tinky-wink a glass of champagne," Morton offered. "I want to get to know her better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of flattening something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of champagne in front of the woman. The stranger slowly picked up the drink.
Cleverly, Morton grabbed the stranger by her pancreas, trying to kiss her passionately on her hip. The stranger flew up, seized Morton by the appendix, and with a fashionable shrug, dragged him to a nearby coffee table and turned him on his spinal cord.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a lady from now on," the stranger breathed crankily. "The name's Eleanor, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Morton sputtered admiringly until Eleanor let go and crossly turned away with a sketchy wrinkled nose. Suddenly, Morton reached into his class ring and pulled out a rose. "Hold it right there, honey. I got something for you, doll."
Eleanor turned woefully, drew her butcher knife, and faced Morton. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Naïve? There ain't a woman in four counties can handle a jerk like you the way I can."
The two stared at each other courageously for what seemed like a day. Finally, Morton lowered his rose. "Okay baby, you win," Morton warbled brashly. "You got a lotta ribs for a woman. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward her. Eleanor took his hand with an affable caress. "You know, poopsy-woopsy, you're kinda witty when you're angry."
Morton chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of champagne," he grunted.