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As if my composure couldn’t be any more difficult to maintain, I sit up straight and look him in the eyes. “No, I’m actually fine without one, thank you.” Internally, I’m freaking out, but my flight or fight response has settled solidly onresist at all costs!
His eyes narrow in confusion, but he puts his hands up in surrender and slowly steps away. “Sorry, didn’t mean to offend. Have a beautiful night, ladies.”
Samira, Priya, and, yes, even Grace, all glare at me.
“Why did you do that? We were alljusttalking about how fine he was! He wanted to buy you a drink! What’s wrong with you?” Samira asks with exasperation.
“I don’t know. I just haven’t really dated anyone in a long time. I don’t know how to talk to men anymore,” I confess. “I’m pretty drunk. I didn’t want to fuck it up.”
“Being wine drunk is the best time to talk to men! You have all the confidence in the world. I know you. I’ve seen the way you dance when you’re wine drunk,” Priya interjects.
She’s right. I do tend to have more confidence when I’m drunk on wine. Even still, it feels like a bad idea to talk to someone who disarms me so easily. Usually, I have the upper hand in my interactions with men, but tonight I feel too vulnerable.
I’ve spent the last two years trying to date, and it’s been an absolute disaster. Even when do my best to be selective and picky, the worst of them always slip through the cracks and make my life a living hell. A few of them have located my address by stalking me even before we met in person, stalking me with the intent of showing how “devoted” they are.
Some of them have love-bombed my heart to rubble, turning on me as soon as I make any kind of request of them. They’d send flowers and chocolates to my job every Friday, but the minute I asked them to be less possessive when we went out together, they’d become monsters right in front of my eyes. It was like their brains were hijacked by something evil.
Something I’ve learned about men in the dating world is that nothing is as fun to them as the possibility of getting away with something. They always get so disappointed when your energy matches theirs. If you’re a single woman who wants to engage in casual sex with no strings attached, they’ll lose interest because there are no boundaries to cross.
They need to lure in the woman who wants a relationship, someone who has been hurt enough in the past to trust him to the point that she lets him get away with everything. If a man isn’t getting away with something, he’s bored.
Even if this guy at the bar is perfectly behaved and lovely, I don’t feel ready to talk to a man in a country that I don’t live in. What good can come of that? What would be the end game? The only way this would end is with sex that I would definitely regret in some way or another.
The conversation devolves from the mysterious man into something regarding Priya’s most recent visit to the gynecologist, making it easy for my mind to wander into the deep waters of possibility that this man could offer me. It isn’t a crime to fantasize, and my empty wine glass is ready to speak for me for the rest of the night.
Right before we’re ready to walk back to our hotel, the man approaches me alone, handing me a piece of folded paper without a word. He disappears into the restaurant portion of the bar, smiling at me momentarily before the low light hides him behind the reflection of the windows.
“Oh my god, what does it say?” asks Samira with urgency.
I open the paper casually, trying to hide the mix of excitement and nervousness that’s taken over me.
“Marcello – 555-867-530.”
I can’t believe this is happening.
As we leave the bar, we stumble down the stone steps, nearly collapsing into a pile at the base as we head back to our hotel. My feet are starting to kill me now, so I’m more than willing to get the hell out of here and go to sleep.
Everyone else is ready to keep partying.
When we arrive back at the hotel, Samira skips over to the mini fridge where she’s been hiding a bottle of tequila since we got here.
“No, no, I’m not doing shots with you,” I warn, pointing my finger at her in accusation before she has a chance to speak.
“June! Just one shot, then I’ll leave you alone. I promise. Please?” she begs, pulling the bottle out of the fridge and ripping a stack of Styrofoam cups out of their plastic wrapping.
“I think you need to loosen up a little, June. I know you’re still mad at Zeke, and you need to let that shit go,” Priya interjects, gleefully taking a cup from Samira.
She’s right. Iamstill mad about Zeke. Part of what I wanted to gain from this trip was the feeling of independence and personal strength, like I didn’t need a man to make my life feel complete. If I let him dictate how I feel from all the way across the world, I’ll never get past my resentment toward him.
I sigh, exasperated both from my drinks back at the bar and the relentless peer pressure. I reach out my hand to Samira for a cup, and she squeals with joy.
“You’re going to forget that fucker, and you’re going to go get laid by that hot guy at the bar. I’m speaking it into existence,” Priya says with a sparkle of madness in her eye.
Samira pours me a generous shot, and Grace watches us smugly from the corner of the room as we drink it all down.
