Sipping White Zin on a Friday evening, Roxanne sat in her ninth-floor loft condominium chatting with her neighbor Molly. On the crowded streets below, commuters hammered their horns as they fled to homes with lawns and two-car garages. A decade earlier Roxanne divorced her husband and moved into downtown Los Angeles to pursue her career. Now at age 42, she worried about being alone.

“Let’s do the Mayan tonight,” she said. It was her favorite of the inner city clubs—men in tight pants and purple silk shirts. They’d salsa until the middle of the night. The guys she liked—she'd bring them home to her loft.

Molly shook her head. "I'm fed up with metrosexuals. Let's head out to the Valley—Ireland's 32—and meet some real men. I'll drive.”

Fifteen years younger than Roxanne, tall with braided hair, Molly had an affinity for Guinness Dark. She floored the pedal of her BMW onto the freeway ramp, racing down the eight-lane highway past shopping malls and oleander-covered fences. When they reached the corner of Burbank and Woodman in Van Nuys, trucks were lined up at the parking entrance; women in faded jeans and tee-shirts leapt from super-sized cabs. Roxanne wore rhinestone-belted jeans and a red angora sweater.

Inside the pub, people stood three-deep at the bar; every table with twice as many people as chairs. Molly elbowed her way through the crowd with Roxanne squeezing behind. “Haven’t seen you in awhile,” Molly said, wrapping her arm around a man's shoulder.

The young fellow next to Roxanne didn’t look old enough to be drinking. “Hi there,” she said, “I’m Roxy. Do you come here often?”

His head tilted as he stared into her eyes. Kind of cute, she thought. "I live close by," he replied. "And you?”

“First time; my friend brought me."

“You picked a good night. Ken O’Malley is singing.”

“What’s your name?” she asked, but he turned his face to the stage.

Within five minutes, fingers beat a six-eights rhythm as the Guinness and Harp warriors pounded on their Celtic bodhrans. When O’Malley sang about the green hills of Ireland, men and women jumped off stools and kicked up their feet. Molly hopped off into the crowd. Roxanne envied Molly’s tribal rituals, her yearning for homeland. Her own grandparents had anglicized their name at Ellis Island and forgotten about the old country. They’d followed only one immigrant tradition: their children attended college.

“Can I buy you a beer,” a man said, offering Roxanne his stool.

He could be as old as thirty or as young as twenty. His jeans were torn, his shirtsleeves rolled to his shoulder, and his brown hair tied in a ponytail. With his calloused hands and square-jaw, he wasn’t a bone china man—polished fingernails and styled hair—the type she met at the inner city clubs. “I'll take a Harp,” she said, “Call me Roxy.”

He held up two fingers to the bartender. “I’m Neil.”

“Do you mind if I ask your age?”

He laughed. “Does it matter if we’re having fun?”

"Are we?" she asked, her eyebrows arching.

"Later, baby,” he said as he stroked her red sweater.

Okay, she thought. He wants to play. “So, are you Irish?”

“Isn't everyone?"

"Not me," she said.

"So, where’d you get your name? “

“Alexander the Great, remember him? My mother taught history, loved the Greeks. Named me after Alexander’s wife Roxanne. Same olive skin and dark hair." What she didn’t tell Neil is that—like her namesake—she’d spent years on the run from the embraces of men. Unlike the Afghan Roxanne, who’d had only two choices—wife or concubine—Roxanne had divorced her husband; there’d been no heir to the throne.

“Where do your people come from?” Neil asked.

“England or France.” That was her best guess. Her parents hadn’t talked about the past. Now, everyone had died except mom, who traced her heritage back to the Mayflower one day, and the next day she’d be French, depending on the book she was reading. “Let’s talk about you,“ Roxanne said. “Are you a regular here?”

“Every Friday. Haven’t seen you before.”

“My first time,” she said.

He grinned. “Welcome to Ireland’s 32."

“When are you dancing your jig?”

“If I do, you’re joining me.”

She shook her head. “Then, it’s not happening.”

“Bottoms up,” he hollered as he gulped the last drop in his flask. Then, he grabbed her arm and pulled her onto the floor. “Watch my feet,” he shouted over the music.

Within five minutes, she had the footwork down but wasn’t sure about Neil. The men she liked, the passive types, let her take the lead—didn't want her accusing them of taking advantage. She liked being in control.

Back at the bar, Neil ordered another round of beer. This time she wanted to pay—cut the strings, no obligations.

“Relax gal, it’s on me tonight,” he said.

The more she drank, the less she cared about who paid. With knuckles big as garlic-cloves, he folded his hand over hers. By the time the music ended, his middle finger was digging into her palm. Run, a voice in her head told her. She waved her arms to get Molly’s attention. Molly shook her head and laughed when Roxanne pointed at her watch. She wouldn’t be leaving until the place closed down. Roxanne knew that by looking at her.

“So, what are you up to during the week?” Neil asked.

Looking at his sun-leathered skin, she hesitated to tell him about her job. “I’m a bank manager.”

“Sitting at a desk, right? Air-conditioned. A big-shot. You’ve got it good.”

“Yeah,” she said, "but I work long hours.”

“Don’t we all,” he answered.

“And, you?” she asked.

“Own my own business—construction.”

Better than she'd thought. He didn’t live on the streets. “Sounds like a good living,” she said as he ordered another round.

At midnight, he asked, “Where do you live?”

“Santee Village, 716 Los Angeles Street, the old garment district."

His truck was big, white and shiny, with a locked toolbox in back. She needed a boost up into the cab. After he jumped inside, he pulled her over beside him and kissed her. Like a high school teen, she giggled as the voices of the Twilight Lords blared from his CD player, their Gaelic melody echoing down the highway.

When they reached Los Angeles Street, she said, “Drop me in front. There’s no guest parking.”

“Then we’ll park on the street,” he told her. “I’d like to see inside one of these lofts.”

She knew what would happen but didn’t resist. It was unspoken, a secret shared—pretending the other didn’t get it. As the elevator zoomed to the ninth floor, she felt her head spin and grabbed his arm. When she opened her door, the lights of the city flooded the spacious room—red and green like an aurora borealis. “Wow,” Neil said, "Great view.”

With the eyes of a buyer, he wandered through her place: looking up at the pipes on the high ceiling, opening the closet and cupboards, and walking around the partitions into her sleeping area and bath. “With polished concrete floors and stainless steel countertops—a man could be real comfortable here."

“You’re not moving in," she said.

He laughed. “If I had a place to keep my RV and boat, I’d buy my own loft.”

“Okay,” she said, her face red. It was the building that impressed him, not her.

“What’ve you got to drink?”

She pulled out the Zinfandel. “I bought this place for the city view.” She didn’t tell him that it wasn’t a real home without the knotty pine cabinets, checkered linoleum and yellow gingham curtains of her childhood. As they sat on her suede sofa staring out at the city lights, she worried about passing out and missing the best part. Was he waiting for her to make a move, like the others did? Didn’t seem to be his style. Suddenly, he stood, ripped off his shirt and sent a button flying. "Playtime.” His denims slid down hairy legs. “What’re you waiting for?”

They walked into her bedroom, arms around each other’s waist. He’d have to be quick or she’d be dead weight. She hoisted her arms up as he pulled off her sweater. The rest, she tugged off herself. Naked, they fell onto the bed covers.

######

He woke her before the sun rose, dressed and ready to go. “I’m leaving.”

She sat up and pulled at his arm. “Why so early?”

“Job starts at seven.”

“I’ll make breakfast.” She didn’t do that for many guys.

“Cut me a rain check.”

With other men, one night had sufficed. Why would this one be different? But, she'd hoped. Her days of chasing pretty boys would soon end. “When will I see you again?”

“Hold on, baby. You’re the one who doesn’t want to be tied down, nothing girlie.”

“Did I say that?” she asked.

“You talked plenty last night.”

“I don’t remember.”

He nodded his head. “You held your liquor. I admire that.”

“So, what’s it going to be with us?” she asked.

“No promises, no commitments.”

“Will you phone later?”

“Don’t count on it. I get busy,” he said.

“I thought you liked me.”

“If I did, you’d end it.”

“Why so?" she asked.

“I don't eat deli or take-out for dinner."

If she found the right guy, she'd tether herself to a stove, that's what she wanted to believe—to convince him that it wasn’t a lie—but he walked away. When the door slammed, she hugged her legs and rocked her body back and forth. He'd return to cash his rain check. That's what she told herself.