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Isit alone at the bar, projecting my bestdon’t fuck with mevibes while nursing my watermelon mojito. It’s late, and the place is emptying quickly, which is exactly how I like it. To say I’m not in the mood to deal with another jerk would be an understatement, but an oblivious surfer wannabe strolls up to me anyway.
This leftover dud has a swagger that doesn’t quite fit his barely average looks. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t only hook up with guys who are conventionally handsome. However, this guy’s energy is pinging on my psychic radar, warning that he’s someone to be avoided. Besides, he’s just a desperate fish that’s now realizing he’s in the dried-up desert.
Desperation is never a good aura on anyone.
I’m not even his type, but I suppose Iama warm body, so I’m close enough.
I’ve watched him all night, circling the bar and striking out with a series of blonde bombshells in body-con dresses. He’s making his eleventh hour, last-ditch effort with me—an average-looking, brown-eyed brunette wearing a modest blouse and jeans.
I don’t quite fit in with this crowd of middle-class social climbers, but it’s the closest bar to my new apartment.
I didn’t even bother with makeup, not that I usually do much to paint my face. The only way I could demonstrate that I’m trying any less would be to wear flannel pajamas.
This guy must be hard up to approach the only woman here who obviously isn’t looking for a hookup.
“Hi. I haven’t seen you here before,” he says with his best imitation of a sex god, which he isn’t nailing.At all.
I clear my throat, readying my voice for a smackdown rejection.
Instead, I stare at him, because he technically hasn’t asked me a question, so why should I respond?
I refuse to make his intrusion into my personal space easier on him. I was going for the wholesolopity party thing, drowning my stupidity all by myself—yeah, in public. I get how stupid this idea isnow, but I have a rule not to drink alone, as if that will somehow prevent me from becoming a drunk like my father.
Mr. Wannabe Swagger raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for my explanation of why I just miraculously appeared in his life—as if my very presence is for his pleasure. Ugh.
I sit very still. Perhaps, like a small-brained predator, he might not see his prey if they aren’t moving. Maybe, just maybe, he will lose interest if I’m not reacting.
One can hope.
Yeah, I know that won’t work.
Catching onto the fact I haven’t replied, he asks, “Uh, is this your first time here?”
“No.”
The poor boy is sweating now. I’m almost inclined to let him off the hook and send him on his way with a snarky comment.
Almost.
But he brought this on himself, so I wait him out. If he understood the basics of human body language, then he should have realized I’m not in the mood for this crap.
A tortured eternity drags out between us as he studies my stony stare.
In his opinion, he’s scraping the bottom of the barrel and his unwelcome interest should flatter me as the lowly bar dregs I am.
Finally giving up, he blurts out, “You’re a bitch.”
Wow, and I didn’t even say anything other than no. The one-word answer might be a record for me, if I don’t include the guys who get mad just because I don’t turn for their catcalls on the street.
What would this guy have called me if he heard all the other things I had primed to unload on him?
“Aren’t you glad you dodged that bullet then?” I raise my glass to toast his successful evaluation of my personality, and I clink our glasses together as he takes a moment to process what just happened.
Dude, this poser is slow.
