Archive for November, 2010

Poor Little Me: 1

The bar is crowded.

“At least you don’t have to be alone,” she says.

“I can’t think of anything more lonely than being a drop of water in the ocean,” is my reply; and I know what a shit I sound like when I say that, but I’m hoping that she’s drunk enough to think it’s deep. This is a girl I met in the bar. I’m struggling to remember her name right now, and I know how that sounds, but it’s not because she’s some anonymous bit of fluff — I just have a bad memory, especially when I’m drinking. Eventually I’ll find a charming way to tell her I’ve forgotten who she is, but I’m not drunk enough yet.

She looks good. She really does. Far too good for me to really have a hope at going home with her, but it’s going pretty well so I assume that she’s in a bad place. Like I said before: I know how that sounds. But I’m not in the mood to defend how I feel about her or about myself. The fact is that we all kind of assume that other people are more or less like us, and we treat them accordingly. I don’t think much of myself, so I don’t think much of other people.

“What was your name again?” She gets there before me, and even though I’m just as guilty, I make her feel bad for talking to me for quarter hour and not remembering my name. I’m even crafty enough to get her name out of her as I’m doing it. “What’s your name?” I say. And she says, “Samantha,” and I start saying it as she’s saying it and the drink makes her miss the lag, so she thinks I knew it all along and I say, “See? I remember who you are.” I’m shit. I’m so shit for doing this.

To be fair, I don’t know if it’s really been a quarter of an hour. Some amount of time, anyway. Ask me what I’ve spent tonight, and I couldn’t tell you. I don’t care, because she’s beautiful and I feel good. She’s wearing this black dress with a diamond shape cut in the back that shows off her back muscles in a way that I’ve never spent thinking about back muscles as sexy, but they look great. I’d sell this girl down the river for a free drink. I really would.

This is dishonest drinking and I’m going to regret it tomorrow. It’s dishonest because I’m not drinking for the pleasure of it; I’m drinking to impress. What a fantastic shampoo she uses. We must be two feet apart, and I can smell her hair whenever she turns her head, disturbing the air. It’s the kind of thing that could get annoying or romantic given too much exposure.

“I think I have to go,” I find myself saying.

“Okay, nice meeting you,” is what she says to me. I wasn’t aware what my motives were when I said I was leaving, but immediately after her response I realize I wanted her to ask me to stay, but she didn’t. She didn’t even blink. Which just proves that I’m horrible and she’s horrible and we’re all horrible. Or something. I’m getting a little vague right now. Anyway, I’m not even going home. I’m going to another bar, because I can’t stay here.

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