Tennis At The Bar

The amount of material at ones fingertips is staggering, encouraging you to write essays all day,  just by logging in the miles of inappropriate behavior.

It’s Sunday, or No Worry Sunday, as it’s come to be called, where I dispense with all woe till Monday morning.

I’m having a great, unplanned day doing anything this oh heart a mine desires, including a stop at Morini, my favorite neighborhood watering hole for an ice cold glass of Prosecco, better known as, poor girl’s champagne.

It’s 3 p.m.  A half an hour after Happy Hour began, so the place is still flush with brunchers sipping coffee and inhaling homemade Tiramisu, one of their specialties.

The medium size bar is empty, except for a 40ish bald man in white pressed tennis shorts drinking a martini, and a woman of a certain age whose boobs are front and center, like twins in a jumper seat.

They’re seated at opposite ends, talking to one another.

With little choice, I sit between them.  Think Wimbledon without balls, sex appeal or Roger Federer…just a prosaic version of a volley…back and forth, back and forth.

I breathe in, muttering…patience Susannah, do not forsake your peace for a strain of poor manners.

The woman, despite her sagging age, is flirting unabashedly like a debutante, while this still young stallion, a wedding band picking up the overhead light is, I’m estimating, merely being polite.

I finally say, unable to contain myself a second longer,”Why don’t you two sit closer to one another?”

The woman, liking the idea, sits tall in her chair, while the man slumps in his, embarrassed at my overt suggestion.

Check please?  They seem to say simultaneously…she from rejection, him from…Jesus, I was just being nice.

As I watch them both leave like strangers who never officially met, I settle on my cozy bar stool to write this, perhaps not the most riveting, but nonetheless, true just the same… essay.


About Susannah Bianchi

I'm just a girl who likes to write slightly on slant. I've had a career in fashion, dabbled in film and to be honest, I don't like talking about myself. Now my posts are another matter so I will let them speak for themselves. My eBooks, A New York Diary, Model Behavior: Friends For Life and Notes From A Working Cat can be found on Thanks.
This entry was posted in alcohol, food, humor, men, New York City, sex, Women and men, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

14 Responses to Tennis At The Bar

  1. Rubenstein, Hal says:

    Nice piece!

    sent from my iPhone

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Rob says:

    Change your name to Anette?

    Liked by 2 people

  3. skinnyuz2b says:

    Susannah, I like Rob’s idea, ha, ha!
    I learned long ago that it doesn’t pay to be nice to unwanted overt flirtation. They’ll just be encouraged. I’m polite initially, then I merely mumble a response if one is given at all.

    Liked by 1 person

    • The more she drank, the more brazen she became. Actually inspired a future essay…my flirt muscle has been retired. sigh…and you have Pookie after all, so hey…like Paul Newman said about Joanne Woodward…why eat fast food out when you have steak at home, something like that. 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

  4. You have a clever way of getting rid of people who are annoying. So much kinder than the method the mafia used. Must be that Connecticut.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. I was cringing for this woman…ugh. Nothing worse than desperation at a bar. Thank you for ending that mess before it escalated any further … eek.

    Liked by 1 person

    • You can’t help but to relate when someone acts that way. Kill me…please zoom in from Philly and put me out of my misery if you hear my tits are on the bar. Of course that would be a miracle since they don’t reach that far. 🙂


  6. New York Wedding Band says:

    Nice post.

    Liked by 1 person

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