My lil' Sea Monkey

A few weeks past I met up with a friend at a bar near her home. It was the grand re-opening; after having to move from the other location they finally opened their doors. Albeit, another strip mall locale it was more a lounge than the dirty dive bar in my memory. Why a strip mall, I don't know. Southern California boggles me in ways that I am still trying to understand.
Before I stray on tangents, the bartender is the real reason why people come here. Er, at least why I love to go. His name is Stu, and he lives on a boat in a harbor 'cause he loves to "live near the fishies. " He also pours a stiff drink to those who imbibe, and he is a tad bit of a flirt. (That night in particular he was wearing a Popeye shirt- how very appropriate.)
When we arrived, we had some great verbal exchanges, some which include me looking fragile (I attribute that to my scarf, winter coat and wool hat that was adorning my body) and slightly boyish. Always the polite conversationalist, I listen to his ramblings of when he used to chase blond women but back then his hair was jet black. I am side tracked by his beautiful handle-bar moustache, which is beyond perfection. If it were possible, there would be one on my upper lip, complete with fringes that grace my lips.
Eventually, the night came to a close, with us heading out the door. A raspy demand echoed from the bar. I sauntered over to Stu, who methodically leans in to inform me:

"When you go home tonight, you think thoughts of dirty old men, because one fell in love with you tonight. "