Chapter One
I’m not a big fan of singles bars. I’ve always thought that one should not be that desperate for love—that one shouldn’t have to go seek for it. It’s cheap. It’s debasing.
Yet, here I am. Desperate for love, and also apparently a big pushover because I’m not only here, I’m here alone. We’d had plans to meet here, my girlfriends convincing me that this was more for their benefit than it was for my own, because they knew, I guess, if they’d told me the truth I wouldn’t have shown up.
They tricked me, and I can’t even convince myself that I’m going to make them pay for their treacherous behavior. I know that in their crazy, stupid little bird heads they mean well. They just don’t—or don’t want to—grasp how much I despise singles bars.
I know this isn’t the end of it. I know they’re going to tease me mercilessly tomorrow if I don’t spend at least an hour here, so I just order an over-the-top cocktail when the waiter makes his way to my table conveniently tucked into a corner where I can mope in peace.
The LoveSick is a nice place, with quite a select clientele. There are no bouncers at the door, but inside there is a quiet ambiance—people in the well-dressed crowd are mingling around the pub tables, a drink in their hands, smiling and laughing. The lights are dimmed, the atmosphere intimate. The music is good but not too loud in order to make conversations possible.
I can’t help but feel inadequate. I’m the eternal lonely girl, the one nobody talks to at parties, the one nobody approaches at the grocery store. I’m the one who has to be set up with her dates, and even then, I’m the girl who never gets past the first one.
Oh, I got some interest when I went on those dates. The guys that were into me were the ones looking for a heated night and not much more… and that wouldn’t even be so bad if it weren’t for the fact that I wasn’t attracted to any of them. They were responsible adults, with boring day jobs, bland hobbies, and really, really dull conversationalists. I just couldn’t connect with them.
Sitting behind the bar, a dead ringer for Peter Dinklage is chatting with a few patrons. Well, Peter Dinklage, plus twenty or thirty more years. Still looking good, though. He seems to be the center of attention for a lot of people here.
The ones hovering around him are all laughing at his every word, and they all seem perfectly at ease in the bar. They have the kind of confidence that makes people attractive. I don’t belong here, they’re clearly all out of my league.
Well, most of all that one guy who just entered the bar. I noticed him because Old Peter Dinklage waved at him cheerfully as soon as he saw him walk through the door. Wow, that guy is gorgeous. Tall, wearing a dark brown leather jacket, with longish dark hair, square jaw… I think my heart skipped a beat. If the others are out of my league, I wouldn’t dare to dream he would give me the time of day.
As he takes his jacket off, putting it on the back of a chair, I have to stop myself from drooling. He is very muscular, ripped really, I can see as much under his very tight black sleeveless shirt. One of his arms is completely tattooed with intricate tribal shapes. Oh. My. God. I think my eyes might fall out of their sockets if I keep staring at him.
I jump a bit on my seat when I realize someone is standing beside me. Old Peter Dinklage. He is every bit as short as I imagined, shorter than me when I’m sitting even—but his face is full of personality and charm. He is staring at me intently, looking impatient, both his hands behind his back.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
He is way less charming when he opens his mouth. My familiar embarrassment flares as my mind reels. He’s asking me what I think I’m doing here, in his bar full of gorgeous people, with my bland looks. He’s going to ask me to leave.
“J— Just finishing my cocktail. I’ll— I’ll be on my way,”
I’m not a big fan of singles bars. I’ve always thought that one should not be that desperate for love—that one shouldn’t have to go seek for it. It’s cheap. It’s debasing.
Yet, here I am. Desperate for love, and also apparently a big pushover because I’m not only here, I’m here alone. We’d had plans to meet here, my girlfriends convincing me that this was more for their benefit than it was for my own, because they knew, I guess, if they’d told me the truth I wouldn’t have shown up.
They tricked me, and I can’t even convince myself that I’m going to make them pay for their treacherous behavior. I know that in their crazy, stupid little bird heads they mean well. They just don’t—or don’t want to—grasp how much I despise singles bars.
I know this isn’t the end of it. I know they’re going to tease me mercilessly tomorrow if I don’t spend at least an hour here, so I just order an over-the-top cocktail when the waiter makes his way to my table conveniently tucked into a corner where I can mope in peace.
The LoveSick is a nice place, with quite a select clientele. There are no bouncers at the door, but inside there is a quiet ambiance—people in the well-dressed crowd are mingling around the pub tables, a drink in their hands, smiling and laughing. The lights are dimmed, the atmosphere intimate. The music is good but not too loud in order to make conversations possible.
I can’t help but feel inadequate. I’m the eternal lonely girl, the one nobody talks to at parties, the one nobody approaches at the grocery store. I’m the one who has to be set up with her dates, and even then, I’m the girl who never gets past the first one.
Oh, I got some interest when I went on those dates. The guys that were into me were the ones looking for a heated night and not much more… and that wouldn’t even be so bad if it weren’t for the fact that I wasn’t attracted to any of them. They were responsible adults, with boring day jobs, bland hobbies, and really, really dull conversationalists. I just couldn’t connect with them.
Sitting behind the bar, a dead ringer for Peter Dinklage is chatting with a few patrons. Well, Peter Dinklage, plus twenty or thirty more years. Still looking good, though. He seems to be the center of attention for a lot of people here.
The ones hovering around him are all laughing at his every word, and they all seem perfectly at ease in the bar. They have the kind of confidence that makes people attractive. I don’t belong here, they’re clearly all out of my league.
Well, most of all that one guy who just entered the bar. I noticed him because Old Peter Dinklage waved at him cheerfully as soon as he saw him walk through the door. Wow, that guy is gorgeous. Tall, wearing a dark brown leather jacket, with longish dark hair, square jaw… I think my heart skipped a beat. If the others are out of my league, I wouldn’t dare to dream he would give me the time of day.
As he takes his jacket off, putting it on the back of a chair, I have to stop myself from drooling. He is very muscular, ripped really, I can see as much under his very tight black sleeveless shirt. One of his arms is completely tattooed with intricate tribal shapes. Oh. My. God. I think my eyes might fall out of their sockets if I keep staring at him.
I jump a bit on my seat when I realize someone is standing beside me. Old Peter Dinklage. He is every bit as short as I imagined, shorter than me when I’m sitting even—but his face is full of personality and charm. He is staring at me intently, looking impatient, both his hands behind his back.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
He is way less charming when he opens his mouth. My familiar embarrassment flares as my mind reels. He’s asking me what I think I’m doing here, in his bar full of gorgeous people, with my bland looks. He’s going to ask me to leave.
“J— Just finishing my cocktail. I’ll— I’ll be on my way,”
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