Pop used to tell me stories about the Jörmungandr, the serpent that circles the world and bites its own tales. It's been a lotta years, but I think the point was that nothing ever ends, or at least once you get to the end of something, you find that it's only the beginning of something else. Yeah, Pop was pretty deep about crap like that. Anyway, tonight, in Sigrun's little java joint, I see what he meant.

I manage to coax Bridgette into singing along with me on You Make Me Feel So Young. "Hey," I interject between verses, "You can sing!" No lie. So let's take an inventory here. 1) She looks like a brunette Brigitte Bardot, with curves that put Brandon McCarthy's pitch to shame, and legs from here to there and back again. She's what Pygmalion had in mind when he chiseled Galatea out of that ivory block. 2) She's better company than any date I've had since 1811. After the string of tanning-salon-navel-ring-lower-back-tattoo-silicone-one-foot-in-the-trailer groupie chicks, I'm glad to see there's another type. 3) She can sing. Who is this girl?

Naturally, I'm a bit put off when the evening comes to an abrupt end. Through the front window of the shop, I see 'em outside, scopin' the place. Loki's goons. Apparently I'd been discovered by one of the spies of the Father of Lies. "Hey, that rhymes."

"What does?" Bridgette asks.

"Nevermind," I answer, taking her hand and heading toward the back door. "How much do I owe you?" I ask Sigrun.

"Total? Counting inflation over the last two centuries? Four thousand, eight hundred seventy two dollars and sixty three cents." Sigrun states matter-of-factly after referring to my entry in her box of index cards.

"Right. I'll get to that one of these days." I'm about to bolt with Bridgette out the back when it hits me. "How long have I had that tab?"

Sigrun doesn't even look up. "Since 1811."

Ah yes, my last decent date. Side-stepping the thugs, we find our sleigh and high-tail it back to Valhalla. "So did you just remember you had an early squash game tomorrow, or what?" 4) Sarcasm. I gotta marry this woman.

"Heh. No, not exactly." I deftly change the subject long enough for us to get deposited back to Valhalla, safe and sound. We hold hands again and laugh about our "escape", as we walk through the dimly lit, vacant lobby. At the base of the impressive staircase, I check my watch. "Two a.m. Can you believe it?"

"Doesn't feel like it, does it?" Bridgette says with a smile that brings heaven a little nearer. She stands very close, so that I can smell a delightful mix of perfume, cocoa, and winter wind. The temptation to lean in and introduce our lips to each other is too great, so we continue strolling up the stairs to the door of her suite.

I pause. "I...owe you an explanation."

She can tell I'm uncomfortable discussing this. In fact, I think she can tell I'm uncomfortable discussing anything of a remotely serious nature. "Well, Sigrun's waited two hundred years for you to pay your bill; I can wait a while for an explanation, I guess."

"I owe you more than an explanation. I gotta be honest with you; I've had more fun tonight than I've had in ages."

"Really?" she asks, impressed.

"Really. Can I take you back to Sigrun's another night this week? I'd sure like to finish our duet. I'll be there anyway, washing dishes for her for the rest of my life to pay my bill."

Bridgette laughs and squeezes my hand. "Don't you have a show or something?" Ah, right. My job.

"Yeah, tomorrow night. So how about after the show? 1 a.m.? I'll pick you up here, take you to a hot, late-night jazz club, I'll show you more of the town, and we can finish up at Sig's? She's a nightowl like us. Never closes. What do you say?"