me.
“What is someone like you doing all alone on a Saturday night?” I ask. See . . . I bought her a drink and I’m asking about her. That’s the definition of considerate.
Her eyes twinkle, and her lips spread in a smile. “I was having drinks with my friends, but they went home early.”
She touches a silver locket hanging just above her cleavage. Not bothering to ask for permission, I reach my hand forward and touch it. She takes a deep breath and flutters her lashes when my fingers touch her skin. It’s wonderful to see a woman respond to my touch in a favorable way and not glare at me for it. The world finally starts making sense again.
I turn the pendant in my hand. The word “Jujube” is written in a fancy script. I look up at her with a raised brow. “Do you have a jujube fetish?”
She giggles. “No, it’s a family thing.”
I nod and don’t let go of the necklace, not because I care for it, but because it’s putting my hand in the optimum position to graze her breasts. She steals a peek at it and her smile widens.
“And why’d you stay behind after your friends left?”
She blushes and shrugs. “Because I saw you drinking alone, and I thought we could drink together.”
“That’s a brilliant idea.”
The bartender places her drink—a baby blue concoction in a martini glass—and my water in front of us. I reluctantly let go of the necklace to pick up my glass, and I bring it up for a toast. “To drinking together and . . . fun times,” I say, staring smack bang at the words on her shirt.
She giggles again, picks up her drink, and clinks it with mine. “Hear, hear.”
We sip, never breaking eye contact, and once our glasses touch the bar again, I say, “Tell me about you.” My request is more of a command, one she takes all too willingly.
She starts babbling about working at a hardware store, and living with her cousin and another friend, the ones who left her alone at the bar. She continues by saying how over small towns she is, a sentiment that bonds us, and how glad she is that she got to meet a “big city fella” like me.
By the time our nachos arrive and we dig in, I’ve practically tuned out of the conversation. I try not to let it show, laughing, nodding, and asking general and sporadic questions. I’m sure, however, that she can see when my eyes glaze over and my mind drifts, which makes the word “rude” belt into my mind.
I’m not going to lie—the knowledge that I’m being rude is uncomfortable. Regardless, I bet she feels like every single person who stays alone at a bar: glad for having a pair of ears beside you, even if you don’t have their undivided attention. The company and the illusion that you’re not alone usually is more than enough. That brings me some comfort.
The plate is nearly empty, and we’ve gotten two refills of our respective dinks—though I’m now adding a lot of Coke to my Jack to avoid getting too drunk—when she shifts the direction of the conversation. “I’ve been talking and talking.” She laughs. “And I know nothing about you. Where are you from?”
“Not from around here,” I reply, as vaguely as I can. I don’t even remember her name, and I never told her mine. What’s the point in going into my personal details?
She smiles, and holds my hand. “My daddy used to travel a lot for work. I reckon you must get pretty lonely.”
BINGO! We’re at the point of the night that I’ve—and most likely her as well—been waiting for. “Oh, baby . . . you have no idea.”
Another smile and she stands, moves toward me, and presses her breasts against my arm. She brings her face close to my ear and whispers in a childish coo—the least sexy voice ever, “I’m pretty lonely too. How ‘bout we get out of here?”
Without saying a word, I stand, grab a few bills from my wallet, and throw them over the counter. The bartender smiles and shakes his head as he collects the bills. I give him that guy nod and a smirk that
“What is someone like you doing all alone on a Saturday night?” I ask. See . . . I bought her a drink and I’m asking about her. That’s the definition of considerate.
Her eyes twinkle, and her lips spread in a smile. “I was having drinks with my friends, but they went home early.”
She touches a silver locket hanging just above her cleavage. Not bothering to ask for permission, I reach my hand forward and touch it. She takes a deep breath and flutters her lashes when my fingers touch her skin. It’s wonderful to see a woman respond to my touch in a favorable way and not glare at me for it. The world finally starts making sense again.
I turn the pendant in my hand. The word “Jujube” is written in a fancy script. I look up at her with a raised brow. “Do you have a jujube fetish?”
She giggles. “No, it’s a family thing.”
I nod and don’t let go of the necklace, not because I care for it, but because it’s putting my hand in the optimum position to graze her breasts. She steals a peek at it and her smile widens.
“And why’d you stay behind after your friends left?”
She blushes and shrugs. “Because I saw you drinking alone, and I thought we could drink together.”
“That’s a brilliant idea.”
The bartender places her drink—a baby blue concoction in a martini glass—and my water in front of us. I reluctantly let go of the necklace to pick up my glass, and I bring it up for a toast. “To drinking together and . . . fun times,” I say, staring smack bang at the words on her shirt.
She giggles again, picks up her drink, and clinks it with mine. “Hear, hear.”
We sip, never breaking eye contact, and once our glasses touch the bar again, I say, “Tell me about you.” My request is more of a command, one she takes all too willingly.
She starts babbling about working at a hardware store, and living with her cousin and another friend, the ones who left her alone at the bar. She continues by saying how over small towns she is, a sentiment that bonds us, and how glad she is that she got to meet a “big city fella” like me.
By the time our nachos arrive and we dig in, I’ve practically tuned out of the conversation. I try not to let it show, laughing, nodding, and asking general and sporadic questions. I’m sure, however, that she can see when my eyes glaze over and my mind drifts, which makes the word “rude” belt into my mind.
I’m not going to lie—the knowledge that I’m being rude is uncomfortable. Regardless, I bet she feels like every single person who stays alone at a bar: glad for having a pair of ears beside you, even if you don’t have their undivided attention. The company and the illusion that you’re not alone usually is more than enough. That brings me some comfort.
The plate is nearly empty, and we’ve gotten two refills of our respective dinks—though I’m now adding a lot of Coke to my Jack to avoid getting too drunk—when she shifts the direction of the conversation. “I’ve been talking and talking.” She laughs. “And I know nothing about you. Where are you from?”
“Not from around here,” I reply, as vaguely as I can. I don’t even remember her name, and I never told her mine. What’s the point in going into my personal details?
She smiles, and holds my hand. “My daddy used to travel a lot for work. I reckon you must get pretty lonely.”
BINGO! We’re at the point of the night that I’ve—and most likely her as well—been waiting for. “Oh, baby . . . you have no idea.”
Another smile and she stands, moves toward me, and presses her breasts against my arm. She brings her face close to my ear and whispers in a childish coo—the least sexy voice ever, “I’m pretty lonely too. How ‘bout we get out of here?”
Without saying a word, I stand, grab a few bills from my wallet, and throw them over the counter. The bartender smiles and shakes his head as he collects the bills. I give him that guy nod and a smirk that
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