NUTS
An unraveling in two parts
Part 2: Dirty
I look around the dark bar, expectant. My body tingles in anticipation of what’s to come. Or what I hope will come. Early on, I learned that nothing is certain. Nothing and no one.
I rub my bare arms, which are covered in goosebumps. Why did I wear this sleeveless dress? And why hadn’t I thought to bring a cardigan?
Because I’m stupid. Stupid and vain.
He loves my arms. Thinks their definition is sexy. When he said that, I giggled like a teenager. Nervous. And, I admit, turned on.
The hunky, thirty-something bartender keeps glancing my way. He’s dark and intense-looking. What they used to call swarthy.
No doubt he’s wondering when I’m going to order a real drink. I get it. To some, a woman alone equals “cheap.” In more ways than one. Even now. Some things never change.
Except for me. I’ve changed. Or I wouldn’t be here. Waiting for a man who isn’t my husband. For no other reason than the carnal.
And the fact that there’s something dangerous about him. I caught that right away—as soon as he looked at me with something more akin to a glower than a grin. Maybe a little of both?
Or maybe I’m just a bored, silly woman whose real life pales in comparison to the conjurings of her overheated imagination.
Stupidly, and uncharacteristically, I let him fuck me after one too many dirty martinis. I defiled my marriage. And now there’s no going back. Once sullied…
Of course, he’s married, too. Or so he says. What is anyone to believe about anything these days?
I brush my fingers across the glossy mahogany bar. This is a nice place. Not a dive. Not the kind of place where people hook up on a look and a prayer. People have to work for it here.
Thinking this makes me want to laugh out loud. But damn it all to hell, my good humor is squelched when I see the chipped polish on my thumbnail. That’s what I get for trying to save money by “doing it myself.”
I never could give myself a decent manicure. Why did I think now would be a good time to try again?
My hand involuntarily clenches into a fist, my thumb hidden in my palm.
I hope he doesn’t see it. He’s always so pulled together, and me…
The bartender is making me feel even hinkier than I already do. Quickly, I finish my glass of plain tonic over ice and nod my head.
He’s here before I can dab at my mouth with the skimpy cocktail napkin.
“What can I get you, Miss?”
I lick my lips, which have suddenly gone dry.
“Dirty martini. Tito’s, with three olives, please.”
He nods and scuttles off.
Shit. I meant to ask for stuffed olives.
As he rations out the Tito’s with the precision of a surgeon, I raise my hand, tentatively.
He looks at me with a trace of annoyance that he swiftly conceals.
“Um… I’d like stuffed olives, please. Blue cheese, if you have them.”
The bartender thinks I’m a fucking idiot. I can tell. Of course they have stuffed olives. This is a nice place, after all.
Ah. Here is my cocktail. Shimmering like silver tinsel on a Christmas tree. With three fat olives impaled on a plastic sword.
As soon as the bartender turns his back on me, I greedily pull an olive off its skewer and pop it in my mouth. Mmmmmm.
I sip my drink. Perfection. There’s nothing like that first salty, tangy hit. Umami in a glass.
I realize I’m hungry. For a second, I regret that this isn’t the type of place where they put bowls of peanuts on the bar for just anyone to dip their unsanitary fingers in.
Peanuts.
I’m reminded that I haven’t eaten all day, save for the few peanuts I squelched from the stash I keep for the squirrels. They’ve come to depend on me for their daily treat—a realization that leaves me feeling oddly guilty.
What if something was to happen to me? Who would feed them?
As I take a long, silky sip of my cocktail, I realize how inane that sounds.
What time is it? Where is he?
Anyway, my husband might feed them. He’s a good man who loves animals. Of course, he’ll do it. And he knows where I keep the peanuts. I think.
It occurs to me that I didn’t see my favorite squirrel today. The one with the white tummy. Maybe he had a date.
This makes me laugh out loud, and the few people scattered around the bar look at me.
I genteelly cough into my hand, hiding my smile.
Then—oh fuck these people. Who the fuck do they think they are, anyway?
“Slow down,” I think. “Don’t drink so fast.”
And then I order another.
An empty stomach and oceans of vodka. A recipe for disaster.
I’m ready.
So I pick at the chipped polish on my thumbnail and wait.
© Sherry McGuinn, 2026. All Rights Reserved.
You still have what it takes, my friend.
I broke out in a cold sweat.
You’re a fine writer. The narrative is coiled restraint and you have a gift for atmosphere. Life is a lot like baseball. Everything is anticipation, planning and countless scenarios but with very little action.
The action is in the mind. Your protagonist has the goods but desire and doubt make her glisten in the dim light of that bar.