I'm a pretty smart guy, but I don't think I'll ever undersand why women are attracted to certain men

She was in outbound sales during the day, and once I told her I was from Omaha as well, she wanted nothing to do with me.

The inch gap of skin between her tight blue jeans and skin-hugging top teased the boys into giving her an extra buck per round. It allowed their imaginations to get away with themselves and dream that perhaps, if they played their cards right, acted cool enough and threw cash at her, they’d be allowed to view the territory that lie beneath it at a later date. Despite her semi-bored demeanor she knew what she was doing the whole time, and I appreciated her cunning.

Twenty minutes ago I overheard her tell the old man two seats down from me that she was from Omaha, Nebraska and I figured if there was ever a doorstep, this was as good as any.

“So, are you from here?” I ask as she picks up the ashtray and wipes the bar in front me.

“No, I’m from Nebraska,” she says.

“Where at in Nebraska?” I ask coyly, as I’m about 95 percent sure I know the answer to the question.

“Omaha,” she says.

“Ha, so am I!”

“Really? Where did you go to high school?” She asks with restrained excitement.

I put my finger over my lips and smile.

“Shhh, I’m actually from Council Bluffs,” I whisper, “don’t tell anybody.”

Note: For some reason I always say this to people I meet in Chicago who are from Omaha when they ask me that question, and I don’t really know why. But I suppose I do know why: Cause Omaha people are usually condescending to Council Bluffs people, and I say that to beat them to the punch and let them know that I know C.B’s a shithole and they don’t need to crack a joke about it. But honestly I don’t give a damn what any of them think about me being born and raised in Council Bluffs, as I’m actually quite proud of where I came from and the people I grew up with.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody,” she whispers back, and I get the vibe she’s pretty disinterested in the whole conversation as she looks over my shoulder when she says this.

We ask each other the standard questions: What high school did you go to? Oh, do you know so-and-so? Where did you work back there? When did you move here? What do you do here? — Until we realize, despite the fact we grew up less than 10 miles from each other and are only separated by one year we don’t have a fucking thing in common.

At which point she moves on to viciously flirt the group of guys sitting to the right of me (whom are all in backwards ball caps, sports fleece and arguing that the people who really got fucked over in the Yankees pitcher Cory Lidle crashing his private plane into a Manhattan high-rise and dying tragedy are the people that own units above from where the plane collided, “cause the smoke ruined all their shit,” as one stated.)