It was a stormy Friday night when I stepped into the Marquis for an afterwork drink, to loosen up, before my drive home. Normally I would have plans made for the end of the week, you know, dinner plans, with female companionship. But alas, that was not going to happen this day. And to make matters worse, it had been a brutal one at the office what with the inventory logs backed up and no end of complaints. So, I really needed this drink.

The Marquis is an upscale joint where the more sophisticated, younger, or Uber generation, like to hang out. Which is why I really despise the place.

My name is Roberto. That's all you need to know. I'm in my late 50s, been divorced for longer than I was single and with no prospects lined up. At this point in my life, you would think I had a clue about where I was going, but no, nope, nada. I was just about out of options, and I needed a change. So that is why I found myself in an over-priced, over-atmospheric, eclectic joint on a Friday night, with no sound plans. And I hated it.

However, even in the most dire of circumstances some sunshine can occasionally filter, in, and that is why I pulled up to the bar and ordered a pina colada. The young, 20-something, blond-in-a-bottle, girl behind the bar looked as if I was speaking in a foreign language but eventually went to fulfill my order. As I waited for my choice of poison, I looked around to see who I might know from the office. Over in a corner I saw Davy Jones, from accounting, trying to pick up a girl half his age. And at the far end of the bar, the Johnsons, Mick and Rhonda, no relationship, were probably playing footsies as they looked soulfully into each other's eyes. Everyone in the department knew how they felt about each other. It's just, they never did anything. Mike McGregor, of the marketing section, looked impatient as he stood by the door, waiting for a table to become available. Mike was always impatient. Young the vast majority of the patrons might be, but I could still pass for being one of them. For one thing, I still had most of my hair and with only a few gray strands, it still retained its natural brown color. My thick mustache probably had more gray in it than my scalp, but you would have to look hard to spot it. And I didn't act my age. For an old geezer I still knew how to have fun.

When my drink was delivered and tab paid, I stepped back and right into trouble. Although I did not know it at the time, this would be the start of something new, something entirely different for me, something special.

"Oh shit," I exclaimed as I bumped into a young, thirtyish, slender, blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty who was crossing behind me. My elbow made contact with the glass of a really nice burgundy, judging by the aroma wafting up, and unfortunately the red spirit wound up all over the front of this woman's dress. And, regrettably, the dress was white. How do you say, "oops?"

"Oh shit, I am so sorry, miss!"

As I looked into her piercing eyes, I could see the smoldering fury behind them. "How clumsy of me. I am so sorry. I will, of course, pay for the cleaning bill." Pausing for a moment, as mere words could not right the injustice that I had perpetrated, I repeated myself, "I am so sorry, please forgive me."

And everything might have ended then and there, with me getting out of a really tricky situation, with her contact information and a promise to pay for the cleaning or if it was not salvageable, then a replacement dress. I would have been more than willing to repay my debt to this young lady.

That is until she said the magic words, or rather the magic word.

"You fucking BASTARD! Look at me! My dress is ruined!" The short blonde beauty was all but frothing at the mouth.

I am, normally, an easygoing guy. It takes a lot to set off my temper. But considering how I had lost my mother, a woman that I loved deeply and held in such high regards, just a few months prior, calling me a bastard is one of them.

"I beg your pardon," I said in a very low tone, almost too low to be heard over the hubbub of the bar. "What did you call me?"

Well, she got her dander up. the woman stood proud, oh so proud, head straight, shoulders back, chest out, and I might say it was a lovely chest.

Wow, she could be a recruiting poster for the marines.

"You heard me. I didn't stutter," said the blonde-haired, bundle of pent-up rage."

Looking at her, I said, "did you just call me a bastard?"

"Yes," she said, this time in an even louder tone. A tone guaranteed to draw attention. "I called you a 'FUCKING BASTARD' you uncouth hick."

Pretty she might be, I said to myself, maybe even beautiful, under normal circumstances. But with that look of sheer unadulterated hatred seemingly stitched to every molecule of her face, there was no beauty to be seen. And it was fixing to get worse for her, a lot worse.

I used the backs of my fingers to wipe her spittle from my face. That's how close she was when the little vixen unleashed her tirade of verbal abuse. About this time, a waiter passed by, on his way to the dining room. And he had, in his hand, a large tray with half a dozen cream pies. Reaching up, I grabbed the first pie, a rather gooey chocolate cream one, and pulled it away.

"You know what," I said with a tight-lipped smile on my face, "I said I was sorry for what happened. I'm NOT sorry for THIS! And then I let her have that pie right in the face.

SPLAT! Chocolate and whipped cream went everywhere. The force of the impact seemed to push the majority of the cream up onto the top of her beautifully coiffured hair and left a large blob of white cream over most of the scalp. As for her face, well, you couldn't see any of it. That is, until she opened her eyes. Then you could see the whites of those smoldering orbs. But that was the only part. Everything else, from the top of her forehead all the way down to the tip of her chin, was covered with dark brown goo, still dripping off her face and rolling down the top of her dress before coming to a stop on top of her more than ample breasts.

Well, how do you feel now, bi . . . no . . . I'm not going there. I have never called a woman a bitch in my life . . . and I'm not going to start now.

"Oh my God! How could you? LOOK AT ME, you asshole. LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE! This last came out as a shout, clearly heard around the room, now, as every eye was turned on us and our little sideshow.

"How could I. Did you actually say, 'how could I?' It's really quite simple," I said, as I made my way over to where that waiter had stopped. This time I selected two pies, a raspberry cream, and a banana cream. Holding one in my right hand and the other in my left, I quickly retraced my steps and let that young woman have them both, one on each side of her head, in what would be called a "pie sandwich" in some circles. With a resounding slap, that sounded more like a high-powered rifle shot, pink glop and yellow goo tortured both sides of her head, as those pudding pies completely finished the job the first one started. But I wasn't finished yet. I slowly twisted both pies and really ground that mess in. As the crusts crumbled and sheared away, I smeared that gunge up both sides of her head, then over the top, and down past her chin, finally coming to a stop, resting on the cloth over her breasts.

While I stood back, to admire my handiwork, I couldn't help but wonder how this sparkplug of femininity would respond to, what some might call, my attack.

Hmm. Wonder what she's going to do?"

"Oh my God, Oh my God."

Oh my God. I can't believe this is happening to me. That bast . . . no . . . not going to do that. That fucking word has already cost me enough.

From my vantage point, I watched as my antagonist took her hands and tried to wipe away as much gunk as possible from her face, but all she did was smear the mess even further.

"You think this is funny, don't you," she said with a snarl in her voice.

"No. No I don't think any of this is funny, missy," I said with a sneer in my tone.

Well, two can play this game!

As I watched the lady, to see what was coming next, I saw her walk toward the waiter. Now I probably could have gotten out of there unscathed, and I probably should have. But something inside me wanted to see this through. So, I calmly waited, with arms folded across my chest.

The blonde snatched up a pie, a custard pie going by the looks of it, from that tray leaving only two left for the bewildered server.

I watched as she walked, or rather stalked toward me, like a lioness seeking prey. A wicked little grin played out from her gunge-covered mouth, as she came ever closer.

Let's see how you like this.

"You like pie so much," the little beauty said sweetly, "here, HAVE SOME," she said as the bundle of bridled wrath struck me in the face with that pastry. Yellow custard splattered all over my face and down the front of my pale blue shirt. Some even rolled over onto my Navy-blue sports coat. And that little spitfire took her own sweet time grinding that pie into my face. She even rubbed it over the top and around the sides of my head until she had left every last piece of mess on me.

Well . . . that tie's ruined! I thought, looking down upon my red, white, and blue-striped tie. A favorite tie, one that I have had since before joining the army. Maybe a drycleaner can do the job, but I doubt it. Oh well, might as well trash it.

"Uh hum," I said as I felt the slimy goo trickle down my face and neck. Nodding my head, I looked into the triumphant gaze of that little blonde beauty. Taking the backs of my thumbs, I gently hooked them into the inner corners of my eye sockets and then, with a slow sweeping motion, I cleared the goo from my eyes. It was a technique I had perfected in other similar circumstances. I left the rest of the mess in place, sort of like a badge of honor.

"Um . . . that was . . . um . . . good." And with a sigh, I added, "Very good."

"Why thank you, sir."

Was that a curtsy she just did? I thought after watching her maneuvers, almost reminiscent of an NFL player dancing after scoring a touchdown in a key game.

That waiter was still standing there.

Poor guy looks terrified. Probably thinks he's going to get fired for this.

Walking over to the waiter, I looked back at the little lady who now stood, hands on hips, defiantly staring at me, as if daring me to do my worst.

Well, I can do that, little missy. I most certainly can do that.

There were two pies left. One was a chocolate, my favorite, the other was a caramel pie.

Wow, that caramel sure will leave one big sticky mess, I chortle to myself. But I really like chocolate.

At first, I was going to take both and possibly do another pie sandwich. But I decided against it. I wanted to be fair. So, I settled for the chocolate pie.

Chocolate on blond hair is always a winner. After taking a deep breath, I thought, Yuck. That means I'm going to eat the caramel pie. Oh well, at least my hair is short, so cleaning out that mess won't be as difficult for me as it would be for her.

I picked up both pies, but not before handing the waiter a $100 dollar bill. The young, college-age student silently mouthed the words, "thank you" before walking away. I had the chocolate pie in my right hand and the caramel one in the left as I started across that distance of ten feet. I saw a look of trepidation come across the blonde's face. She took a step back, but then stopped, steeling herself for what might come. Say what you want, but that little beauty had guts. Coming to a stop a mere foot from her, I looked down into her startling clear eyes. That face may be covered in multi-colored grime, but the look she gave me was clear as a bell.

"Here," I said as I handed her the caramel pie. Then with my next breath, I slammed that chocolate delicacy into her face. And it was an extra-large pie, with at least two inches of chocolate pudding and no whipped cream to dilute its effectiveness. Adding insult to injury, that chocolate goo just piled on more mess to her face, before flowing down, as a river of muck, onto her ruined dress.

Now, I stepped back to let my tormentor do her best, or in this case, her worst. I smiled, just a little one, but still, it was an invitation to my antagonist.

As she cleared her eyes, and that took some doing with one hand holding onto that caramel pie as if it were a family heirloom, the little termagant seemed shocked, at her good fortune. I saw a look, in her eyes, I had not seen before, a look of almost relief. And then something else, gratitude, perhaps.

The blonde cocked her head, almost like a baseball pitcher before throwing a fastball. A slight smile reached her lips. "Thank you," she said. Those two words, so often misused, but so important, were enough. I nodded, just a brief one, saying it was alright. And then she slapped that pie into my face. She let go, and that pie tin just hung there. Oh, how sticky that caramel goo was. But oh, so good, too. Finally, she removed the tin from my face and reached in to scoop out the rest of the sticky burnt sugar.

"Hmm. This tastes really good," she said after trying a sample. She gave me a nod, then a wink, "yes, very good," she added, before smearing it across her own face.

I couldn't help it, but a laugh tore from my lips.

After what seemed like an eternity, I said, while looking into those deep blue eyes of this very beautiful woman, "I know where there is more of that stuff." And with that I motioned my head toward the dining room.

Her eyes twinkled, a sparkle here, a glint there, and then she was laughing. As we stood there, laughing like two hyenas in a savanna on the edge of an African jungle, the tension, which until then, had soared almost to the very heavens themselves, seemed to dissipate from the room.

And with that, my new friend took my hand and we walked toward the dining room, and destiny.