Nine o'clock on a cold December morning. I'm riding the Franklin Avenue shuttle back from Sadie's apartment with my collar popped to hide my hickies, and I'm wishing I had some sort of disguise. Because even though I'm not the kind of guy to be walking home in the party dress he wore the night before, high heels slung over my shoulder, make no mistake: I'm doing the walk of shame.

Sadie and I met two nights prior at a bar known more for hanging out than hooking up. It's also the sort of place where it's okay to sit on your stool reading a dog-eared paperback while the snow gets serious outside. My Sherlock Holmes book had been occupying me between bites of burger until a new pair of eyes appeared at the end of the bar. Sadie did, and still does, look like the oft-ballyhooed "naughty librarian."

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Bespeckled in horn-rimmed glasses and a polka-dot dress, she was an NC-17 Nancy Drew. She met my gaze and smiled in a way that indicated she wanted me to buy her a drink. But then, with Sherlockian subtlety, she pointed to the empty stool to her right. Sitting on the bar next to her was a second drink, and I deduced from the empty barstool and the half-full beer that she was here with another suitor.

Sure enough, Sadie's date returned from the bathroom. He was a decent-enough looking guy, a little shorter than her, which made him a lot shorter than me. People on dates aren't necessarily off limits, especially those in bars. I'd met at least one girlfriend while she was on a bad Internet date, so the feelings of quiet competition weren't totally unfamiliar.

Sadie continued to send me glances, and I couldn't help but start quietly humming that terrible '90s pop song about sex and candy. Someone was casting devious stares in my direction, and this probably was a dream. Her date's back was to me, allowing Sadie and I to engage in optical intercourse without fear of being caught. Her demeanor toward him wasn't quite the naughty-librarian routine she seemed to be giving me.

I couldn't help but start quietly humming that terrible '90s pop song about sex and candy.

In regard to her date, Sadie seemed to be a very nice librarian. If this guy was looking to check out some books, they appeared to be on hold for somebody else.

Returning to Holmes, I found him talking to Watson about the differences between real life and fiction: "Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent," he sagely informed his assistant. And as I looked up to see Sadie heading for the bathroom, my life took one of those sudden little leaps in which I knew exactly what Holmes was talking about. I got up and discreetly followed her.

In the dark hallway, we whispered our names to each other. She proclaimed her date boring and said she would rather be sitting with me. With beverage napkins, we exchanged phone numbers with vows to meet the following night. I returned to my barstool and immediately began to text her. I caught her furtively smiling at my messages as she casually texted back. Our phones chirped like crickets signaling to each other across the night. When I got home, I had a voicemail. Sadie was giving me directions to "a great dive bar where we can make out in the corner" the next night. The instant familiarity was bizarre, but exciting. Like a romantic comedy mashed with softcore porn. Something for everybody.

The following night, Sadie was determined to prove she could drink me under the table. And while I was hardly putting up a fight, she managed to get me halfway toasted and back to her apartment in under an hour.