"I gotta get up at like, three A.M."

Sometimes mere words are enough to make my penis soften with revulsion. Holly was nice enough, and shapely, and cute -- but unspeakably dumb. I even entertained the possibility that she was retarded, but -- at risk of stereotyping -- I don't think the mentally challenged frequent club district on Saturday nights.

(Ever have an assertion leave your lips only to realize you completely believe the opposite? There must be a name for this phenomenon.)

Anyway, we chatted as we waited for our drinks, pushed up against the bar by the sweaty crowd. Her round blue eyes seemed to soak up what little light there was in the place, and her Pan-Am smile pulled me toward her like gravity.

But behind that smile was a mind like a bachelor's fridge. (I'm talking mustard and Heineken, folks.) Her face would crinkle in confusion after everything I said, yet she would immediately bounce back with sunny optimism, determined to propel the conversation further; it was more like dragging a charred corpse from a burning building. For a full five minutes her face oscillated between looks of "huh?" and dogged effervescence.

Did I mention Holly enjoys the tension created when waiting in lines outside shitty bars, because it "makes it so much better" once you finally get in? Upon hearing this, I politely mentioned that that might be stupidest thing I ever heard. Her faced twisted gently, and she said just as gently, "maybe." Then she laughed. Oddly, in spite of seeming not to understand anything I said, she found me hilarious. In the name of science, I'm tempted to retry the entire ordeal speaking pidgin Swahili, but I doubt I could get the funding.

Waist-deep in the murky conversation, I considered reaching out calmly, taking her shoulders in my hands and shaking her like a tambourine. Maybe we would have made a better connection that way? I don't know, that type of thing used to work on an old Walkman I had. Either way, it was time to cut her loose.

Inhibiting her advances with an air of indifference and assholery only seemed have the opposite effect. I eventually turned her down citing HIV, or an early morning meeting, or rally, or something. I left Holly and the conversation with the air of a clothed (and soaked) prank victim ascending from a reflecting pool. I waved goodnight, and she responded with a delicate sweep of her hand, and glowing eyes, and a brilliant shining smile.