1985

She scanned the crowded bar, putting on an air of disinterest as she crossed her legs, took a sip of her beer. She was seated at the bar, the stool to her left empty, the one to her right occupied by a barely-legal college girl trying to look sophisticated as she flirted with a forty-something on her other side.

Karen rolled her eyes, looked down at her watch. Another wasted Saturday night; another Sunday morning she would wake up alone. She toyed with the wedding ring on her left hand, flipped it over with her thumb so that the stone was turned inward, pressing against her palm.

She had been coming to this place for almost two months now. Every night she would enter the hotel through the back, hoping to pass unnoticed amongst the bleary-eyed tourists who were checking in after a long day of travelling. She had been there so frequently that the security guard that stood between the entrance to the swimming pool and the little restaurant knew her by name.

"Mrs. Popeil," he would nod at her as she hurried past him, rounding the corner into The Red Radish. It was typical of a hotel restaurant, which turned into a thriving bar as soon as 10 p.m. rolled around. The décor wasn't particularly tacky, but was lacking any sign of a central theme. For some reason this always bothered Karen; she liked to be able to categorize the aspects of her life that she had trouble dealing with, but this bar refused to fit into any kind of construct.

Even though he never showed up, and Karen left the bar each night at exactly 12:35 a.m. - waiting an extra five minutes in case he were to arrive at 12:30 - she couldn't help but still feel hopeful each evening as she dressed for the night out. Despite her unconventional childhood and lack of any kind of parenting, Karen's spirit was still strong. She remained an eternal optimist; even in the face of despair she could see the light at the end of the tunnel, the bright side of every situation. This was a quality that would be worn down over the remainder of life, and as disappointment after disappointment struck her psyche. But for now, at 25 years old, she was full of hope. If only she could just get out from under herself.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" a voice asked over her left shoulder.

Karen spun slightly on her barstool, turning to face him.

"No, no, go ahead," she replied, gesturing towards the empty seat next to her and turning back to her drink. The man smiled at her, not taking his eyes off of her as he sat down next to her.

"Do you come here often?" he asked.

Karen rolled her eyes before turning back to look at him. So he would be the one tonight; the man who, without fail, would try to pick her up before she turned him down and went home for the night. There was always one, sometimes two or three in a night.

"Yes, actually," she answered him, a pleasant expression plastered across her face. She didn't elaborate, and it was soon clear that he was going to be a talker.

"Well, what's good here?" he asked, leaning in closer to her to study the contents of her glass. She caught a subtle whiff of his cologne. She couldn't place it, but she knew she recognized it. Maybe from one of the testers at those upscale department stores on Fifth Avenue? "What are you having?"

"A beer."

"A beer? A beautiful woman like you, drinking a beer? I don't think so." He gave a sharp, high-pitched whistle, motioned the bartender over from the other end of the counter. "Vodka martini, please. And one for the lady."

Great, Karen thought, here we go again.

"That's very kind of you," she told him, as he turned his attention back to her with a big grin, like he had just done the most impressive thing in the world and was expecting commendation for it. He seemed pleased with her gratitude.

Karen was grateful that he didn't try to initiate any kind of lame small talk as they waited for their drinks, and she took the opportunity to study him. This man was older than the others, probably around 40. He was well-dressed, but not pretentiously so, alluding to the fact that he had big money but not flaunting it. He had a medium build, fairly muscular, but was going soft. His peaches and cream complexion complimented his graying hair, which Karen noticed was thinning in the back. He certainly was no Superman, but for some reason, Karen found herself oddly attracted to him.

When their drinks arrived, the man lifted his glass slightly to toast her. Karen hesitated, picked up the martini glass the way he had, and gently clinked the rim of her against his. She braced herself for the taste of the martini - she knew the taste of vodka well and was ready for its icy burn down her throat. When she took her first sip, however, she was pleasantly surprised. This was much better than straight vodka.

"This is good," she commented, without even realizing the meaning he would read into her words.

"Haven't you ever had a martini before?"

"Um, actually…no."

"Well, I'm pleased that I could introduce a new drink into your life, Miss…"

"Popeil. Karen Popeil." Karen extended a hand limply toward him, allowed him to take it and kiss the top, smiling up at her.

"I'm Stanley Walker."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Walker."

"Please, call me Stan."

"Alright. Nice to meet you, Stan."

"So what brings you here tonight, Karen?"

"I'm waiting for someone."

"Yeah…me too." Stan suddenly frowned, and Karen could've sworn she heard a slight sigh escape him. "I just don't know who yet." It would only be years later that Karen would find out that Stan had wandered into the bar that night after a fight with his then-wife, Cathy. He was looking for someone to love, truly love, someone to take care of, and someone to heal his breaking heart. He wouldn't realize until later that she had found that someone, sitting at the bar and relishing the taste of her first martini. "Who are you waiting for?"

Karen cleared her throat. She liked this man, she really did, although she didn't know why. There was something about his demeanor, how he was talking to her like an equal, not just a conquest or a prize to be won, as all the other men in her life had. She felt strangely secure with him. And that's exactly why she knew she had to be honest with him. The stone of her wedding band was digging into her palm, creating a little round imprint in the soft flesh. She used her thumb to spin it back around.

"My husband."

Stan's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"I see." He took a sip of his drink, Karen studied his face. "Is it…an anniversary?" he ventured, trying to guess the reason that a married couple would need to meet somewhere, let alone a bar at 11:45 at night.

"No, no." This time Karen took a drink. "He um, he left me…a few months ago. As he was walking out the door, I told him that when he realized what a mistake he was making, he would know where to find me. This is the hotel where we first met." She didn't realize that she had also just met another future husband here.

"Oh, I see. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was a bad marriage, I can hardly blame him for leaving. In fact, I had my bags packed that night, too. He just beat me to it."

"So why are you still waiting for him?"

Karen smiled sadly, studied the honesty and concern in Stan's eyes.

"Because he's all I've got."

Stan was quiet for a minute, and Karen turned away from him and back towards the bar. Her drink was getting low.

"Karen…" he began, his voice surprising Karen. She hadn't expected him to pursue this pick-up once he knew she was married. "I think we're a lot alike, you and I. Looking for the happiness we deserve, but trapped by the life we've created for ourselves." She smiled at him, instinctively batted her lashes. "Do you want another one of those?" he asked, motioning towards her empty martini glass. She smiled shyly and nodded, blushing as he smiled with her.

Karen stayed at the bar until 1:30 a.m. that night. The next four nights she went, Stan was there, waiting for her at the bar, with her vodka martini with two olives all ready to go. After the fifth night like that, Stan got them a suite at a hotel downtown, and Karen never went back to that hotel bar.