Never Too Real by Carmen Rita

it was directly tied to her business. She’d said her little one was having trouble and she had to pick him up from daycare by 7:00 p.m., at the latest. Cat wondered if that was the whole story. Gabi was more than capable of handling things, but she’d been harder to reach than usual. It wasn’t like her.
    Ah. Cat took her first generous sip of wine. That’s so good, thought Cat. I could do this every day. But I won’t. Have to make sure I don’t. She was secretly pleased in that moment that her friends tended to operate on Latin Time when they met: L.T. Working in broadcast had trained Cat to live her life by the clock. Late was never a good thing, and even though she knew her posse was always half an hour late, she couldn’t break herself of her on-time habits. And now she was grateful to be alone, calming down a bit more with each pull of drink from her glass.
    “Oh, hey!” A tipsy, red-faced commuter in a suit and open tie called out to Cat from his bar table two yards away. He sat with a middle-aged blonde who, rather than being a fellow red face, was stone-faced. Cat saw him out of the corner of her eye and hesitated, sensing him as an “NF,” a not friendly. She couldn’t ignore him, though, lest he turn cranky and raise his volume. She looked at the bartender to make sure he was paying attention to this. He returned Cat’s look and gave her a nod: I got you, sister . Cat turned only her head toward the voice.
    “Yes?” Though she tried to give folks the benefit of the doubt, she’d had her share of stalker-crazies in the past, so her body was tight in apprehension.
    “Hey, aren’t you that girl with that show?”
    Oh no. He was a worse person than she’d thought. She should have been late, just this once.
    “Yeah, I am . . . that girl with that show,” Cat replied, her tone between possibly friendly and don’t-mess-with-me, smiling without her eyes.
    The bartender kept his eye on the tipsy guy while the rest of his body went about the business of cleaning and prepping the bar.
    “Yeah, good show. Good show.” The man raised his glass. His companion stayed quiet.
    “Thanks.” Cat turned her head back to the bar, gave him a small glass raise in return, and took another sip of wine, checking her phone with her other hand. Body language for “we’re done here.”
    It could be pleasant to be recognized, but it didn’t always turn out so well. Her first red flag was this guy’s happy-hour crimson face. The second and third flag were his shoes (ugly, but functional, trading-floor shoes) and his hair (ashy blond, tamped down with too much product). Cat recognized that he was likely not someone who lived in the city, around brown people, or liked things brown people liked, like immigration.
    “Ya know, do me a favor and tell that Joe guy with the other show that he’s an asshole.” The drunk paused to swallow. “He lost me a ton of money.”
    Cat didn’t respond but instead gave him a nod just like the bartender had given her: I hear ya, brother . She then thanked the stars for sending in a large group to sit down between them—just in time, preventing Dios knows what. Geez, where are my friends? Cat wondered.
    “You want another one?” The bartender gave her a feel-for-you face.
    “No, no, thanks. I’m good.” Cat craved another glass but knew she’d have to pace herself. It could be a long evening and she was much too thirsty and on edge.
    “Hey, chica .” Magda had snuck in behind Cat and now leaned in for a cheek-kiss hello.
    “Thank God you’re here. Freakin’ douchebag over there was giving me shit.” Cat gestured with her head. At the same time she also noted with envy how Magda never had bags with her. It seemed so freeing. No baggage.
    “The fat fuck. Want me to tell him off?” At nearly six feet, with a rich chip on her freckled shoulder, Magda feared no one.
    “No, no. Just . . . Anyway, how are you?” No television talk for Cat. Moving on.
    “How are you doing?