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“And what does the TARDIS stand for?” I ask.
“Easy. Time And Relative Dimension In Space.” She smiles smugly.
I’m so surprised that I continue to stare at her, and she frowns. “You’re mocking me, aren’t you? Now I feel like an idiot.”
“Not at all. You’re the first person I’ve met who’s been able to recite all the doctors. In order. I think you’re amazing.”
Her eyes widen, and her lips part, but no words come out. For a moment we just study each other. Her eyes are the color of New Zealand’s silver fern: light green flecked with silver, with a dark-green ring around the edge. Fuck me, she’s beautiful. And she recognized that my suit, long brown coat, and white Chucks are more than a nod to David Tennant’s Doctor Who. She’s looking at me as if I really am a movie star, as if she can’t believe I’m standing in front of her.
She tears her gaze away from mine and gestures at the bartender as he passes again. He ignores her, and she huffs a sigh.
She looks back at me. “What do you call a time-traveling cow?”
I blink. “Huh?”
“Doctor Moo.”
I give a short laugh, and her lips curve up.
“Can I buy you a drink?” I ask softly.
She hesitates, then says, somewhat regretfully, “I’m with friends.”
“I’m sure they won’t mind if you have a drink with me.”
“I shouldn’t. But thank you for asking. I’m very flattered.”
At last, the bartender comes over. “Two glasses of Sav,” the redhead says, “one Pinot Gris, one Chardonnay, and… a Coke Zero.”
“You don’t drink alcohol?” I ask her as the bartender goes off to get her order.
“Embarrassed to say that when I’m buying a round, the bank account insists I drop the alcohol. You know what it’s like.” Her gaze slips down me. “Or maybe you don’t.” She sounds amused, and a touch envious. “What’s the whisky like?” she asks, tapping my glass.
“It’s an Islay Malt.”
She does a Jim Carrey impression, “Ooh, s-mokin’.”
“You like them?”
“My dad did. I haven’t had one for years.” Her smile fades, and she drops her gaze to the bar.
I gesture at the bartender. “Give her a double of the Ardbeg, would you?” He nods and goes off to carry out the order.
She looks at me, eyebrows raised.
“This round is on me,” I tell her.
She gives a short laugh. “I couldn’t accept that.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I don’t expect anything in return. Just enjoy the Ardbeg, okay?”
Clearly, she doesn’t know what to say to that. In the end, she mumbles, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I lean an elbow on the bar and watch her while she waits. She rubs at a mark on the wood, not meeting my eyes.
“What’s your name?” I murmur.
