“Can I get you another?” he asks, nodding at my glass.
I look down at it. Still half full.
“I’m pacing myself.”
“Right.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“Not really.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
I shake my head with a grin. “Fine. Yes. You can get me another. But if this turns into a series of increasingly questionable choices, I’m holding you responsible.”
“Seems fair.”
He turns to the bar, orders without fuss.
“Same again,” he says, then, “and a Coke.”
I glance at him. “Coke?”
He looks back at me, easy. “I’m not a big drinker.”
“Oh.”
I'm not sure why that surprises me.
The bartender brings the drinks. Mark slides mine towards me, keeps the Coke for himself.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
We both take a sip.
“So,” I say, because apparently I’ve decided to keep this going, “do you often just walk up to strangers in bars and introduce yourself, or have I been specially selected?”
“Don’t usually,” he says.
“So I am a special case.”
“Yeah.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re either very honest or very good at this.”
“Which do you prefer?”
“Still undecided.”
He smiles again, softer this time.
Right.
This is a problem.
