She is a body language savant: from the moment he sat down, her leg was on his and her glossy brown tresses were flipping to and fro in something like a come-hither shrug. He turned away, careful not to lose an eye. Flip. He inched his stool away from hers, but it was no use. Every time he glanced her way she'd rub her chest, then bring her tennis-braceletted hand to her mouth and fellate her drink straw. Then, oopsy, she dropped her purse and bent to nestle her head firmly in his lap. His flinch only provoked more strawlatio; man, that straw had something to tell his friends in the morning. After this shot, the Maple Leaf Hoochie jumped onto her prey's lap and pretty much rode him like a pony. He just sat there, hands at his side, glancing at the door.

Finally someone came over from Jaques Imo's to say that their table was ready. The Maple Leaf Hoochie gave her hair a good twenty or thirty flips as she passed, slowing to make eye contact with every male in our party. That guy so didn't need to buy her dinner.