What are you, she asked, smiling.
Oh, let's see, I answered, as if this was some new detour.
German, Irish, Cherokee Indian, some other stuff.

What other stuff, she pressed, dying to state the eternal gotcha.

Martian, I said with a straight face, actually South Martian; that's where I get my curly hair.

This was two decades ago, when my currency was staked higher.
It got me somewhere with girls, on occasion.

All the wrong ones.