“Valentine’s day is so over rated!”

“Yeah, and over priced too!”

For the past hour, they'd been sitting two bar stools apart, mostly in silence.

“Do I need a special day to tell someone that I love them?”

“Yeah, like if by splurging on a dozen high priced roses it means you love somebody more.”

She was wearing a mini skirt, and a tight, bright red, tank top. The top was unencumbered by any use of a bra. She'd applied her make up that morning using the Vincent Van Gogh method. Which simply meant, she was better appreciated at a distance than closer up. The glass in front of her shared the same color and amount of lipstick as she did, but somehow seemed to carry it off better. She'd long abandoned her pumps to the floor.  In an uneven contest, comfort had won out over style. Her hair was a dirty gray, matted down, and in much need of a good shampooing. She hadn't been to a hair stylist in six months, although none of this was obvious under the red wig she was wearing.

She was surrounded by a thick cigarette smoke screen, which see alternately used either to protect her from the outside world, or the outside world from her. This, all depending on the circumstances, and mood of the moment.

His attire was best described as early Salvation Army. His faded jeans were worn thread bare. He was a large man, and could have easily used two bar stools for support, although his pants were visibly larger. Even though sitting, it was plain he'd make a tragic figure in those pants when standing. Most men just didn't know the value – attached by women – of pants which fit snugly to a mans ass! Whether he understood this value or not, was irrelevant. Value was something he couldn’t afford. His faded imitation Pendleton shirt had seen better days, witnessed by the two missing buttons lost in the battle to keep his gut restrained! His tennis shoes – despite the lack of shoe strings – held his swollen feet, in a bear like grip.

Sucking back on her cigarette, she blew another smoke cloud, to fortify the immediate area around her. “Ya know what?” She said, then paused.

“No, what?” He finally offered.

“I didn't even know it was Valentine’s day until I came in here and saw the decorations. I mean come on; that's not a sin? Is it?”

The sharp silence cut through her protective smoke screen long enough for him to notice the Van Gogh application. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and in this case was helped by the lack of any direct illumination.

“Well is it a sin or not?” She asked again.

“No. No, I don't think so.” He said over the top of his beer glass. “Hell, I always thought Valentine’s day was on a Sunday. When did they change it to Wednesday anyway?”

She offered him her best smile, and giggling said, “ya know, you're kinda cute.”

Returning her smile, he showed her a mouth missing more than a few teeth. Unconsciously, she reached to the ashtray for her smoke screen maker, then realized she'd already snubbed out her last ammunition several minutes ago. That's when she noticed his hands. They were big, like two fly swatters attached to his lower arms. They were callused and dirty. The trademark of an honest, hard working man. Suddenly she was reminded of her father. His hands had looked exactly like the ones in front of her now. All at once, his bad teeth lost their adverse bite on her first impression of him.

And there they sat, locked in each others charms. He was a committed Van Goghest, and she was in love with those fly swatters.

Around closing time, the bartender placed two cocktails in front of them. Saying “they're on the house, Happy Valentine’s Day!”

Simultaneously they both asked, “what is this?” The bartender smiled and said “It's called sex on the beach.” And then with an after thought added. “But if it gets that far, please for God's sake, use a condom!”