Don't Mind My Honey

"Come sit down with me, I'll pay you enough to cover a dance," the big guy says.

"OK." I walk over to the DJ to check on my place in line for the stage, then walk back over to his table and pull up a chair.

"How are you tonight?" I ask him.

"Fine, beautiful, how are you?"

"Good..."

By this point I've noticed the tattered little white paper bag he has out on the table. It looks as though maybe he's brought a pastry with him.

I don't say anything.

"So, tell me, what sign are you?" he asks.

"Guess."

By now he's begun fumbling with the bag, organizing the contents therein and looking like he's about to make a move to pull whatever it is out. A cheese danish? An apple turnover? Who brings a pastry to a strip club?

"Well...there's four different kinds of signs." He's gazing at me, then looking off into the distance as he rummages in the little bag and ponders my astrological make-up. "Air, wind, earth and fire."

"Yeah..."

"I'd say...." He's about to pull it out. I don't know what I'm more excited for - finding out the contents of the bag that this man has thought to bring along, or hearing what he has to say about my intrinsic personality traits, having known me for all of 45 seconds.

"...air." He's right, and as he says it, out from the bag comes a small plastic bottle of honey. For his tea, that is sitting on the table in front of him.

It will probably be the first and last time I ever see that inside the club, and that is something I can rarely say.