INT. BAR - NIGHT
Esme Stuart sits at the corner of the bar, sipping from an ice water.
A plaid-clad 40-something with a comb-over sidles up beside her.
So...baby...what would you like me to make you for breakfast - waffles or scrambled eggs?
Esme places the tip of her thumb between his eyes and flicks him in the forehead. He lumbers off...
...and a mustached fellow ensconced in black leather and tatted head-to-foot takes his place on the empty stool.
Yo. How bout you come outside and get a handle on my crotch rocket? And if you're real lucky, I'll also show you my bike.
Esme orders a beer. It arrives. She splashes it in his face. He scowls away...
...and a college sophomore weighed down by thick glasses and carrying an MDI inhaler tucked in the breast pocket of his polyester argyle shirt, taps Esme nervously on the shoulder.
Um, excuse me, ma'am, miss, um, hi, um, my name is Howard - well, Howie - and if you wouldn't mind...I mean, you're MILF-tastic...oh God, did I just say that out loud? I'm so, so sorry. I'm just going to...
Esme watches him as he scurries for the door, exiting as a balding gentleman in a sports jacket and khakis enters. He spots Esme and takes the empty seat.
Hey, lady - want to head to my place and read a chapter of James and the Giant Peach to your chicken-pox-infested daughter?
Esme smiles, finishes her water, and leaves the bar with him.
FADE TO BLACK