She could feel him looking at the faint traces of gray in her hair that she usually covered up via strategic tress placement when she didn’t yet have the time to dye it. But because of the position she was laying in, her hair fell back ever so slightly and he could see it. The trace amounts. And she knew it. Was keenly aware of him staring at and appraising the patch, perhaps wondering if he had miscalculated her age in his discombobulated stupor. Perhaps he was wondering if he ought to run right out of the bedroom tout de suite and go try to find a younger model. Because this one was, clearly, already too old. What the hell had he been thinking?

Of course, he knew what he had been thinking, back there in the bar: he wanted to fuck. And she looked good. Better than he was expecting for a place like that. It was some quote unquote dive in Downtown LA, maybe the last one there. And the only reason Michael decided to go in was because every other bar he walked into arbitrarily was way too overpriced for his taste. Hank’s was the place by default, its prices average, its fare standard. Besides, it was attached to the hotel he was staying in, the Stillwell. He didn’t have the energy to bother venturing beyond the confines of Downtown. What’s more, half the reason he had chosen to stay in this area was because it was classified among the only walkable neighborhoods in LA. That is, if one wanted to count wading through occasionally murderous, mentally ill homeless people as “walkable.” Luckily, Michael did. And, luckily, the moment he walked into Hank’s, there she was: Alana.

She was seated all by herself at the end of the bar. But not in that way that radiated loneliness, so much as wanting to be alone—Garbo-style. Leave it to Michael to interrupt that peace. It was in his nature to ignore blatant social cues. However, based on Alana’s visceral, eye-rolling reaction to his imminent approach, he must not have been the first of the night to ignore the social cue of this particular scenario—which was, in two words: fuck off. Thus, when he finally reached her, he decided not to say anything. To simply sit down on a barstool near her, with one seat between them. Maybe, if he just stared ahead and said nothing, she would be the one to initiate the conversation.

Alas, his theory couldn’t have been more inaccurate. Alana was perfectly content to just keep sitting there, sipping from her beer glass as though it were a fine wine. That’s when he decided to swallow his pride. Oh the things one had to do to get their sex fix. He decided the best angle would be to play the meet-cute gambit. The bathroom happened to be located in the area behind her, so his play would be to stumble into her on the way there, as though he were already tipsy, knocking over her drink as a result and then offering to buy her a new one. It was a pretty seamless idea, he thought—apart from her maybe thinking he was a sloppy drunk.

Of course, as is often the case, fantasy didn’t quite align with reality. And when the scenario he had envisioned was actually set into motion, he didn’t account for how slippery the floor was right behind him. As though someone had already spilled plenty of beer in this part of the bar. He could see the way she was smirking at him as he felt himself fall backward in slow motion. And then, in an instant, his head cracked against the floor, knocking him out.

When he awoke, he was in her apartment. At least, that’s what he gathered from seeing her in the kitchen brewing coffee from his vantage point in the bedroom. What the fuck just happened? How long had he been out? These were both questions that Alana immediately answered when she noticed him stirring.

She left her post in the kitchen to come toward him. “Well hello there, Mr. Graceful,” she smiled as she handed him a fresh cup of coffee.

He stared at her dumbly.

“I’m guessing you have a few questions about what you’re doing here.”

Michael nodded, taking a slow sip of coffee, as though it might be poison.

Alana made her way back into the kitchen to get some ice out of the freezer and arrange it into a rag she already had laid out on the counter. Bringing the compress to Michael, she instructed, “Ice your head a bit more. I was doing it here and there while you were knocked out for the past thirty minutes… Or rather, after you knocked yourself out.”

Michael sheepishly took the ice-filled rag and put it to his forehead.

Alana continued, “So I brought you here because I knew that’s where you obviously wanted to be. In my bed, right? I mean, you made such a spectacle of yourself and it got you nowhere but injured. So I figured I’d just help you out. Do my ‘act of kindness’ for the year.”

He stared back at her incredulously. “Are you serious? You could tell I…?”

“From the moment you walked in. It was all over your horn dog face. How long has it been since you got laid anyway?”

Michael glared at her in offense. “Excuse me, but I think you’re speaking way too casually with me.”

“Oh really? Have I offended your delicate sensibilities? The man who was about to maul me at the bar?”

He sighed. “It’s been a month, okay?”

“Not long at all. I thought you were gonna say years.” Alana approached him more gently now, taking a seat next to him on the bed.

Propped up against the headboard, he stared at her, then realized he was staring and became flustered and awkward.

She grinned. “So…do you still wanna? Or are you ‘spent’ from beating yourself up?” She paused strangely, realizing that word could have a double meaning in this context. “Um, you know what I mean. Not masturbating, but like—”

“Yes, yes. I know what you mean. And of course I still want to.”

Alana let her facial expression become stoic now, gradually leaning in to kiss him as the rag he was holding in his hand fell to the floor. She took the lead, removing his shirt and pants. He let her do whatever she wanted, he was utterly spellbound, in total disbelief that this was happening. It was more wonderful and fantastic than he ever could have dreamed. But then it was all ruined. Because when it was over, that’s when he saw the trace amounts—of gray hair near the left part of her hairline.

After such an intense orgasm (it felt like the volcano that was his dick would never stop exploding), this was a real disappointment to him. And he couldn’t figure out why. He knew it wasn’t that big of a deal, not really. But he kept looking at the patch until she finally noticed and quickly fixed her hair, getting up off the bed immediately to feign “needing a glass of water.”

Suddenly, Michael felt like the hugest, most superficial asshole in the world. Here he had just had one of the best fucks he could remember (of course, men always think the freshest fuck is the best they can remember) and he made her feel like total shit after she gave that to him. She really was a “good Samaritan.”

From the kitchen, she called out, “You want some water?”

“No, no thank you, I—”

Before he could finish, she snapped back, “Okay, well, I think you should leave now.”

Utterly deflated, he replied, “Oh. Really?”

“Yeah. I have a lot of things I need to do. I’m a screenwriter, you know. This is LA, after all.”

“How does that relate to the ‘things you need to do’?”

“The muse is calling. That’s all you need to know. I will tell you that I think I have a great idea for a script about a mentally challenged fuckboy who’s so brain damaged he can’t even tell what a douche he is.”

Michael leapt out of the bed, still totally naked. “Alana, please. I think there was a misunderstanding back there.”

“No there wasn’t,” she said tersely. “Please leave.”

He could see there was no changing her mind, and the last thing he wanted was for her to call the cops on him or something—she seemed like the type who would. Thus, he went back into the bedroom, put his clothes on and pitifully collected his personal items—his phone, wallet and an expensive-looking watch that was actually ten dollars from someone selling them on the street near the hotel.

As he walked out, he looked at her in earnest, trying to find the words that might make her remember the little spark they had shared only a few minutes ago. But she beat him to the punch by saying, “You know, one of the things I actually have to do right now is dye my hair.”

And then, he picked the worst possible response before she practically gave him another concussion on the way out: “How old are you anyway?”