I sit at the bar, nervously nursing a twelve dollar Manhattan. It's a classy place where Toronto's finest go to unwind after a hard day in the office. By rights I certainly shouldn't be here wearing a cocktail dress I can't afford. The elegant, wine red fabric hugs my thin form in all the right places. You look like a star. That's what the clerk had said. Sparkling sequins cover the elegant garment, twinkling brightly whenever I make even the slightest movement.

I feel ashamed, for I am a fake. I am not a doctor or a journalist. I do not scream and shout at the stock market or seduce juries into letting my clients go free. I am the third of five children, a waitress at Denny's and a high school dropout. I am as common as a pebble. I just look nice when polished.

The price tag on the dress scratches and irritates my back, mirroring my conscience nagging at the back of my mind, "You don't belong here." Tomorrow this gorgeous dress with be back where it belongs on the rack at a posh store in downtown Toronto, just as I will be back where I belong serving up steak and chicken at Denny's.

A man comes in. He is alone, though I can not imagine why. Dark brown hair is combed back in the debonair style typical of successful businessmen. He wears a black sport jacket over an elegant, dark grey turtleneck. Our eyes meet; I quickly turn away and take a sip from my twelve dollar Manhattan. It only takes him a moment to cross the room, sit down at the bar two stools over and tell the bartender that he'll have what I'm having.

I glance his way; he smiles. Oh no, I shouldn't have looked. Warm green eyes gaze back at me, perfect white teeth flash my way and a strong jaw begins to move as he tells me his name. Stunned by his statuesque features, I don't pause to think before giving my own, not bothering with the fake I had come up with earlier in the day.

Coltrane’s “Every Time We Say Goodbye” begins to play in the background, and I smile. It's one of my favorites. I notice a similar smile on his face. He comments on my taste in music, and an animated conversation soon follows. We talk for hours, and inevitably the conversation turns to careers. He is an author. What am I? What am I? Frantically I search for an occupation as he awaits my reply. I'm...a journalist! Yes, for a women's magazine. Which one? Uh...think, think...Elle! Yes, I write for Elle. Why yes, our careers are similar. Oh, I enjoy writing...yes, indeed...one learns to tell great lie...er, stories. Would I ever go freelance? Oh, I don't know, I haven't thought about it.

I keep digging myself in deeper, and we keep talking. I drain the rest of my twelve dollar Manhattan.

The bartender lets us know it's last call. The end of my little fantasy has arrived. I feel even more depressed than I thought I would. He really is a wonderful man. I excuse myself and stand up, but he rises with me. I feel my chest constrict with guilt and look down at the floor as he tells me that he has enjoyed my company, that he wants to see me again, but he has to tell me something rather important first. Then as I hang my head in shame, I spy a tag hanging from the left sleeve of his expensive black sport jacket. A tag exactly like the one that digs into my back.