So a woman walks into a bar

Pretty crowded in here tonight. Mind if I sit next to you? There aren't any other open stools. Thank you kindly. What's that you're drinking? Black Russian? Sounds good, think I'll get me one of those.

I see you've noticed my hand. – No, no apologies needed. I'm not self-conscious about it, not after all these years. You can look all you want. After all, it's not every day you see a man missing two fingers. – Wood shop? No, not hardly. Much more interesting story than that.

It all started right here, in this very bar. I was in my early twenties, wearing my usual leather jacket and jeans. I took a seat at the table over there, in the corner, where the bartender couldn't see me. I drank a little too much in those days, and when I drank, I liked to play a game with a knife...

You put your hand flat on a table, and stab the spaces between your fingers. You start slow at first, but then you see how fast you can hit each space. It gets more challenging the more you have to drink. A pointless and dangerous game, but it helped to relieve the boredom brought on by youth and too much free time.

I was sitting at my usual table, playing my game, when I saw her. Gorgeous woman, simply perfect. Dark hair, about the color of my drink here, and blue eyes that matched her dress. That dress! Lacy, low cut, looked like she could have been on her way to a wedding or a funeral or maybe a brothel. She saw me looking at her, and started walking my way. I was sure she was going to yell at me, or tell me to keep my eyes to myself, but she didn't. She just smiled.

"I saw you over here, all alone," she said, "and I thought you'd like some company. I'm Pamela Leto."

"Jared Anderson," I said, "and I would love some company. Why don't we go sit at the bar, and you can drink until I'm handsome."

I must have had one too many – alright, six or seven too many – because I can't recall half the night. The next thing I remember is waking up in her car. I was in the back seat, and she was up front driving. I realized my hand hurt like hell. My hand was wrapped in an old towel, and the towel was soaked in blood. I unwrapped the towel and saw that two of my fingers were gone.

"Where the fuck are my fingers?"

"Oh, you're awake," she said, startled. "I have your fingers up here, in a plastic bag full of ice. We'll be at the hospital in a couple minutes."

"What happened?"

"I went to the bathroom, and when I came back, you were on the floor, bleeding all over the tile. I asked someone how you got hurt, and they said you were playing a game with a hunting knife."

As you can see, the doctors couldn't reattach my fingers. Something to do with the nerves. The doctors stitched me up, and Pamela paid my bills. She gave me her phone number and dropped me off at my apartment.

The next day, my hand was still hurting. The doctors gave me some pills to kill the pain, but they weren't working. I called the factory where I worked and asked for a few days off. I actually had to get them a doctor's note. Can you believe that? As if I could fake missing two fucking fingers.

I called Pamela and asked her out. She said, "Why don't you come to my place instead? I'll make you dinner." I hadn't had a home-cooked meal in a long time, so that sounded great. I bought a bottle of wine and headed on over.

Her place was huge. I lived in a two-room studio apartment, but this woman had a house the size of a small country. Apparently I had snagged a rich gal. I rang the door bell, and it played the first few notes of Beethoven's Fifth.

"Hello, lover," she breathed. "Come right inside. Dinner's about ready." She led me into the dining room and walked back into the kitchen. "I've just got to freshen up a bit, and then I'll bring in the appetizers."