She smiles as she takes it from him, hooks it under the bar, and returns to her book.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks. He’s got slicked-back hair and shockingly white teeth.
“Johnnie Walker Blue,” Sam says. “Neat.”
“A man with expensive taste,” the bartender says, as Sam pulls a credit card from his wallet. “My favorite kind.”
“And I’d like to buy this woman a drink. For inconveniencing her purse like that.”
She smiles tersely. “That’s nice of you. But my purse is fine.”
“No, I insist. What are you drinking?”
She hesitates, takes stock of him. “Okay, fine,” she says. “Gin martini. Five olives.”
“A martini? Would have pegged you more as a rosé drinker.”
“How gendered of you,” she says. “But you know what they say about martinis.”
He’s learned to observe people unobtrusively, a professional necessity that allows him to see that underneath the white tank top she’s wearing a pale pink bra with lace trim, that the skin on her shoulders glistens. “No, what do they say about martinis?” Sam asks her.
“‘The proper union of gin and vermouth is a great and sudden glory; it is one of the happiest marriages on earth and one of the shortest-lived.’” The bartender sets her drink in front of her. “Bernard DeVoto.”
Sam nods down at her book. “Is that who you’re reading?”
She flashes the cover, revealing an image of a woman in silhouette. “No, this is that thriller everyone’s talking about.”
“Any good?”
“Good enough. Another unreliable female narrator. I’m getting a little tired of the way women are being depicted in fiction right now, to be honest.”
“And how’s that?” Sam asks.
“Oh, you know,” she says. “That we’re prone to neurosis and/or hysteria and our judgment shouldn’t be trusted, thus legitimizing the hegemonic idea of masculinity and men’s dominant position in society and justifying the subordination of women.” She picks up her glass and returns to her book. “Anyway, thanks for the drink.”
Sam allows her to read one more page before leaning in. “Hey, smarty pants. You visiting for the weekend?”
“No,” she says, turning the page. “I live here.”
“You’re kidding. Chestnut Hill is a small town. I think I would have remembered seeing you.”
“I’m new.” She looks up at him. “Moved here last month from New York. A ‘cidiot,’ I believe we’re called by the locals?” She slides an olive from the plastic stirrer with her teeth, and he’s imagining how salty her lips must taste when he feels a hand on his shoulder. It’s Reggie Mayer, the pharmacist. His wife, Natalie, is a patient; she thinks Reggie smells like salami. “Natalie’s not feeling well,” Reggie says, holding up a plastic to-go bag. “Bringing home some soup.”
“Tell her I hope she feels better,” Sam says, leaning in a few inches, detecting no smell.
“I will, Dr. Statler. Thanks.”
“Doctor?” the woman says after Reggie has left.
“Psychologist.”
She laughs. “You’re a psychologist.”
“What? You don’t believe me?” Sam reaches for his wallet again and pulls out a business card, which he slides next to her drink.
“Weird,” she says, reading the card. “Would have sworn you were a podiatrist. So, you want to analyze me?”
“What makes you think I haven’t already?”
She closes her book and turns to face him. “And?”
“You’re smart,” he says. “Confident. An only child is my guess.”
“Very good, Doctor.”
“Two devoted parents. Private school. At least one graduate degree, probably two.” Sam pauses. “You’ve also had to become adept at shouldering the burdens of being an exceptionally beautiful woman in the world.”
She rolls her eyes. “Wow, that was bad.”
“Perhaps. But I’m serious,” he says. “I’d bet if you were to survey every man in this place as to who they’d want to take home tonight, one hundred percent of them would say you.”
“Ninety-nine percent,” she corrects him. “The bartender would say you.”
“Constantly being on the receiving end of the male gaze can have an effect,” Sam continues. “We refer to it as objectification theory.”