I walk up to the bar and choose a seat, it’s just a little bit too high for me to be able to climb up easily. I hold onto the bar with both of my hands and push up using my toes, lifting myself up onto the seat. I manage to do it as gracefully as can be expected. The barman comes over to me and I place my order. A single Jameson’s on the rocks.
No Bradley, I don’t want water.
I look over my shoulder and survey the room, my eyes rolling over people, plants, and furniture like a wave dancing over the rocks. A young couple hiding in the back. She steals a kiss between whispers and giggles. It won’t last, he’s got his nose buried in his cell phone and is far more interested in that than in the petite brunette trying desperately to get his attention.
Forget it, Tiffany, he’s more in love with whatever unobtainable thing he’s looking at than he ever will be with you. Save yourself, girl.
Behind me is a group of teens, a public service poster for a woke campaign on how to appear diverse and accepting but listening to the conversation they’re a bunch of judgy little shits with about as much compassion for their fellow human beings as a loaf of stale white bread.
Over my other shoulder is an elderly couple, they’re eating their dinner in silence. Some people may think that’s sad, that they’re so bored with each other that they have nothing to say to each other, nothing new at least. But that’s not what I see. They’re just comfortable with each other, they don’t need to talk. They have a routine and after years of slogging through life’s obstacle course and getting through the good and bad times together, they’re just comfortable and at ease enough to enjoy their carbonara in silence.
I sip my drink and think of how comfortable I am with my own company. Like that couple, I’m accustomed to it. I’m perfectly content to sit here and enjoy my drink on my own. I don’t need to have conversations, I don’t need to be surrounded by people. I am happy to sit here alone with my thoughts. It is what I prefer really. So when you come over to me and try to strike up a conversation, I feel annoyed, I don’t want to work at entertaining a stranger, I want to be alone with my thoughts.
You ask me if I’m new around here. Could you really not think of anything better than that? Of all the pickup lines, of all the ice-breakers out there, is this really the best you could come up with?
I tell you that I’ve been here a while. I drain my glass and lean forward, making it look as like I’m getting up.
You don’t fall for it and without even asking me, you call over to Bradley the barman, and order a refill for me.
Really? Are you not even going to ask me if I want a refill? You’re just going to take it upon yourself to make decisions for me? Well, if you’re going to do that, then…
“Double!” I call out to Bradley.
“Glenfiddich!”
Fuckit, you want to make decisions on my behalf then do it properly. You’re young, you’ll learn.
You don’t look phased, that’s annoying. You’re talking, but honestly, it’s all blending into itself. Like your words are blobs of play-dough that are floating in the air in front of you and they’re kind of blending into each other like squishy bubbles. I make out the odd word here and there. You’re talking about yourself. Of course you are.
Who are you? Why would you walk up to a stranger and just talk endlessly about yourself? You don’t notice that I’m not following the conversation but that’s hardly surprising. I suppose it doesn’t matter, just as long as you have a direction to point your ego in.
The Brad brings me my drink and I wonder if it’s actually worth the high cost, listening to this drivel. I take a slug. You take a second from talking about yourself to tell me how impressive it is to see a woman drinking a man’s drink.
I look up at you, you have a gawky, hyper expression on your face. Your eyes are darting around, perspiration making your face shine. I wonder if I’d be able to see myself in the reflection. What is it? What are you on? It’s not just beer. I’m not clued up on drugs, but you’re clearly wired.
You lean forward, I can smell your booze breath mixed in with sweat, you’ve been here a while.
“I like a strong older woman,” you tell me.
You’re not the first fetus to hit on me. Boys your age seem to have a fantasy about banging an older woman. What is that? Do you think we’re experienced so we’re into some kinky shit? Do you want us to teach you that kinky shit? You should really work on your conversation skills if you want to pick up a strong, older woman.
“Why are you here?” I ask you. Your stink is ruining my drink.
Your mouth turns up in the corner in a geeky smile, you remind of Stifler.
“I think you’re hot. I wanted to get to know you.”
You pour the remainder of your beer down your throat, slam the bottle down on the bar, and call out to The Brad to bring you another. He looks annoyed. Poor guy probably has to put up with this shit every shift. That takes patience.
“Get to know me?” You don’t pick up on the sarcasm. You’ve been talking about yourself the whole time.
You laugh, spit shoots out your mouth, and hits me in the face.
“Ah, sorry babe,” you say as you lean forward and use your thumb to wipe the spittle from my cheek. Your breath makes me want to gag.
“Fuck, your gorgeous!”
It’s *you’re you fucking hick.
I grab your hand and pull it away from my face.
“Okay Chad, that’s enough.”
“My name is not Chad!” You guffaw.
I know that, Chad!
“You know”, you begin again as you try to lean into me again, “this place is full of young, pretty girls. But I saw you and knew you were the one.”
Is that supposed to be a compliment?
“Oh really?” I get up off the barstool, and pull my dress straight, making sure it didn’t hike up at the back to show my washday granny panties off to the whole place.
“Where are you going?” You stretch your arm out and wrap it around my waist, pulling me closer. Unfortunately, you’re a lot bigger and stronger than me. I quickly check to see where The Brad is. He’s looking over and watching what’s happening. That’s good. He looks about ready to intervene.
“Listen, Chad.”
You laugh again interrupting me, “My name is not Chad, it’s Jacque.”
“Trust me, you’re a Chad. Your little routine of stale insults that are meant to sound like compliments doesn’t work on older women.”
“No babe, wait.” You suddenly realize that this isn’t going the way you planned.
I try to pull myself free from your grip, but you’re not letting go.
“Let me go before I snap your dick like a dried-up twig!”
I grab your dick with my free hand and squeeze. It’s a lot smaller than I expected, not quite in proportion to the rest of you. Is that steroids?
Your arm drops from my waist and you let me go as you suck in a deep breath, your bottom jaw drops open and your eyes widen.
“Oh Chad, but your feet are so big!” I say and look down.
I lean forward and whisper in your ear.
“Here’s some advice, if you’re going strut around like a mighty cock, make sure you’ve got more meat in your pants than a vegetarian restaurant.”
I give it a hard squeeze till I see the panic in your eyes, then I let it go. The Brad has walked over and asks me if I’m okay.
“I’m great, thanks. Chad here was just leaving.”
I take out my credit card and hand it to The Brad.