Was never a friday girl…

I woke up at six am this morning and could not go back to sleep. I remember this girlhood anticipation—like the first day of school, where you just can’t go to sleep and you wake up far too early. My first date with the nameless is tonight. Oh, one could argue the fact that it’s not a date unless one picks the other up, but I choose to ignore that argument. I’m meeting him at the bar. I sort of like the fact that I don’t know his name yet, adds another element of mystery I can’t really describe.

 He came in again on Tuesday. Even though it’s rather dark inside, I noticed the man’s shoes (don’t I always). Black and white houndstooth sneakers. I smirked at his audacity. Disappointingly enough, this time, he didn’t really try to talk to me. He sat at the end of the bar, drank quite a few PBR drafts, watched television and moped. On a normal evening, he would be social, talkative with the rest of the patrons, playing My Bloody Valentine and Bad Religion on the jukebox, flirting.

 I washed glasses, told dirty jokes that cracked up the drunks at my side of the bar, all in sad lonely girl hopes that he would eventually pay attention to me. To clarify a rather embarrassing point, I am NEVER like this. Being a bit of a barfly and a bartender, having both seen and lived “the game,” it’s easy to say that throwing myself at a male, in attempt to be smooth or otherwise, in general, makes my stomach turn.

 Finally, I approached him; set down a shot of my poison in front of him, and grinned, telling him it looked like he needed it. And I received the first smile I’d seen out of him the whole night. Goddamn was that shot worth it. He slammed it back, turned his stool around, and came to life.

 Vincent seems unimpressed. He thinks most males that sound even the remotest bit interesting are usually all games and gimmicks; have something up their sleeves. That evening, I was so pleased to see him I didn’t even ask where he had been, but welcomed him back just as if he had never been gone. Though in retrospect I now wonder if he just missed his jacket. But it didn’t matter—we drank vodka martinis and stayed up all night writing and laughing. And Man Ray, well, ignored me the entire evening, favoring his lap instead. Which ultimately was fine with me. I suspect he has fleas.


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