Free MAGPIE by M.A. Reyes

rendezvous. I never knew if he did, but I complied each time; less out of respect for our agreement and more for fear of Katie (or the twins, God forbid) getting a glimpse of my forbidden world.
    With not much time left, I dabbed a little makeup; my skin had bronzed over the last few weeks and I didn’t need much. I’d cropped my hair for summer, so all I needed was a little product to tame my curls and…Voila! Primping was complete.
    I found one of my favorite lightweight sweaters near the back of my sweater drawer, an open-weave, boatneck number in the most brilliant shade of pink—not quite magenta but almost. I wore a lace camisole underneath, finishing the outfit with a pair of fine leather flip-flops with sparkly rhinestones. I was pleased that the color of nail polish I’d selected earlier at the salon matched my sweater perfectly. A quick look at my reflection and a swipe of lip gloss completed my routine. From shower to car door, I never spent more than 45 minutes getting ready to go out; date night with Brett was no exception.
    The Varsity Grille was an upscale dive near the University of Denver, the oldest private university in the Rocky Mountain region. DU attracts domestic and international students with wealth and privilege, the common thread uniting an otherwise diverse campus. Housed in a renovated 1920s bungalow much like mine, “The Grille” was noted for its vintage furnishings from the antique and second-hand stores that lined Broadway for twenty solid blocks. Unlike most other college hangouts, The Grille had an eclectic clientele; a mixture of students, professors, neighbors and professionals gravitated to this cozy and upbeat place.
    I parked several blocks away knowing that on a Saturday night, no street parking would be available nearby. It was five after eight, almost fashionably late. Thankful for lingering daylight, I took a look in the rearview mirror and dabbed on a little more lip gloss, running my fingers through my curls one last time.
    Brett was standing on the front porch. Several tables were occupied on that coveted piece of real estate, but a two top remained vacant. As I approached, I noticed he was standing in front of it, staking his claim with masculine pride.
    Waving, Brett said, “Hey there. I found a table outside. Does that work for you?” It was feeling more like high school every minute.
    “Sure,” I said with a cautious smile.
    We embraced like first cousins at a wedding. I did manage to feel very muscular arms through his thin Led Zeppelin “United States of America 1977” t-shirt.
    After a few awkward moments, Brett got up and asked, “What would you like to drink, Mags?”
    It was definitely a beer night, so I replied, “Stella, please.”
    Brett asked if I wanted a glass, which totally threw me; hadn’t expected that level of service from Cocky Jock. Politely, I accepted the offer of a glass, and he moved through the door with a confident stride.
    People-watching was one of my favorite pastimes. Airports offer the best subjects, but bars come in a close second. With only a few tables outside to observe, I locked onto a young couple engrossed in a debate about Obamacare. Interestingly, they were playing “footsy” and were able to separate discussion from passion, or so it seemed. Sitting at another table were three professional women, older, about my age. Unlike the young couple, they weren’t talking about anything of political or social importance. Men—black men to be specific—were the topic for the animated bunch. Before I could get any juicy tidbits, Brett walked over with my beer and his: a pint of Guinness.
    “Guinness, huh?” I said as if it were an illegal import.
    “The best. Can’t handle piss water like we drank in high school.” He took a sip, which left a foamy mustache on his upper lip that he wiped with the back of his hand.
    I asked with a challenging tone, “Do you think Stella is piss water?’”
    “For me, yeah. But if you