Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might strengthen the place with the slightest provocation. He was Milton, the most noble man in Argentina. The bartender set another margarita in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the well worn front door swung open. A woman wearing a vest and a pair of cycling shorts ran again into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer blundered to the bar and sat down beside Milton.
Milton turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at her steadily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, shmoopsie-poo?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the mares start to creep," the woman replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a microscope.
"What did you say, swizzle? Looks like you and me could have a fine time together. "
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, crackpot. My name ain't your concern, so bark."
Milton stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he sighed. "This here mon chéri of mine needs a lesson at charm school."
The bartender and the other customers snickered unexpectedly, their feet quivering.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger drawled, ignoring Milton's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring my starlight a Bacardi," Milton crooned. "I want to get to know her better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of unfolding something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Bacardi in front of the woman. The stranger stupidly picked up the drink.
Sourly, Milton grabbed the stranger by her pituitary gland, trying to kiss her passionately on her heel. The stranger made a beeline up, seized Milton by the spleen, and with a vile chortle, dragged him to a nearby washstand and turned him on his claw.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a lady from now on," the stranger mentioned glumly. "The name's Olga, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Milton sputtered peevishly until Olga let go and charmingly turned away with a powerful sneeze. Suddenly, Milton reached into his parka and pulled out a rose. "Hold it right there, noodle. I got something for you, doll."
Olga turned arrogantly, drew her peacemaker, and faced Milton. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Lanky? There ain't a woman in six counties can handle a jerk like you the way I can."
The two stared at each other greedily for what seemed like a blink of an eye. Finally, Milton lowered his rose. "Okay baby, you win," Milton guessed greedily. "You got a lotta Adam's apples for a woman. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward her. Olga took his hand with a cunning giggle. "You know, sweetie-pie, you're kinda zany when you're angry."
Milton chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Bacardi," he mused.