Redheads @ 8 O'Clock!

I knew writing that Batwoman piece was tempting queer karma, double drat! the old adage of one redhead to a bed, came back to tramp stamp me on the arse. My times, they are a changin', and, as per, I'm wrassling fate and that slippery bitch is winning. Still, life goes on, and on, and on: city landmark hotel, busy friday night, rather balmy for the time of year, we are outside, laughing, drinking, unwinding – no, winding up, which is about where I come in, or, to be precise, where my guttersnipe mouth comes in. There is something 'Barassi' about what follows next.
What did I say? Nah, can't quite get it, but whatever it was, it brought her to a crescendo of red-headed temper; there were, were you understand, six empties on our table, and then, there weren't. They went in one foul swoop, or should I say, one clean sweep. All over the road, made a great sound actually, a shattering which momentarily, rendered all the other outdoor patrons, silent in reverence. I saw her tush vanishing fast into the funk, those cute little boot heels stamping bitumen, that mane of shaggy red stuff, swaying to and fro in anger nee frustration. I sat there, noticed that miracle of miracles, thanks to the smiling grace of St Pinot Noir, I still had a glass with at least one decent swig left in it – waste not want not, I say.
I could hear everyone else talking about dyke fights and red-misted redheads and I calmy supped up, then, casual as you like, alighted the hostelry with a dignified panache. Sweet Jesus, I thought to myself, what in the name of clearskins have you gotten yourself into now? That whispy thought pretty soon evaporated however, as I made haste to a re-union (hoped for reunion) two blocks away. I sucked the blood from her finger, why the hell not, we are going pagan anyhow . . . it was a whole new ballgame, and, for once, I was on the receiving end of what I usually dole out as the Primo Drama Queen. It's always odd being on the other side, even odder being verbally accosted by a woman with more spunk than you've got, but hell, what's a girl to do? Thus, I did what any redhead worth her vegetable salt would do; I hit the sack and acquiesced.