Harry settled onto a bar stool, easing his hips over the smooth wooden surface and pivoting on his buttocks to face the bar. His ubiquitous presence was felt by the other patrons. Harry smiled brilliantly at them. “Bartender, my good man, bourbon. Be generous,” he hollered.
When he heard the bartender voice his acquiescence, Harry started chatting with a man next to him, a man who seemed to be some sort of law enforcement officer who had a rough day. He eyed the man’s fingers as they twiddled around a glass of J&B, took note of the man’s sullen expression and resigned posture. He decided to perk him up somewhat, show him a little bit of sympathy and understanding. Being a cop was a thankless job, and Harry had had enough encounters with the fuzz to know that most people found them to be buzz kills. Harry, naturally, saw it as an opportunity to befriend a police officer, in the hopes of one day being able to use the man to his advantage, should the time come.
"So your lady’s being … difficult. The only way to behave a woman is to make love to her if she’s pretty enough, and to someone else if she’s not. Your dilemma is simple enough to fix—just tell her how unsatisfied you are. Sometimes, couples forget how to communicate. If you want maximum satisfaction out of your … whatever it is you two have, then you must be frank. Tell her that she’s being a bitch." He blinked at the cop indulgently, as if his words were of the highest caliber when it came to advice, and the cop seemed charmed enough by Harry’s matter-of-fact tone that he believed Harry. The carelessly open sweep of his eyes over Harry’s body told of other things, and the man raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. A cop with a proclivity for men? Or maybe just me.