“You’re doing it again,” she tells me, nudging me with her elbow, and I look down, into her empty mojito glass. Dang, she must have downed the entire thing while I was daydreaming.
She must be tipsy, feeling the buzz, if she’s teasing me.
“Doing what?”
“Spacing out.” Her smile is restrained. “I know I’m not that exciting—please do not feel like you have to stand here and keep me company.”
Guilt slams me in the stomach, a tight fist to the gut. Is that what she thinks? That she’s boring me?
Hardly.
“Sorry, I had a…” I search for an excuse. “It’s been a crazy week.”
“Right,” she deadpans. “Like I said, don’t let me keep you.” She pauses and looks over the bar top. “But would you do me one favor before you go? Can you order me another drink? They’ll leave me standing here all night and I don’t want to be empty-handed—it feels weird.”
That’s hardly a favor.
My hand goes out, finger up.
Tiffany is back in a flash; I hand her Miranda’s empty glass. “Mojito?”
I nod.
“Wow. That is unreal.” Miranda shakes her head—in disgust? Contempt? Disbelief? It’s difficult to tell under these lights, which have turned everyone a slight shade of blue. On her, it’s flattering, and I wonder what color her top actually is. “You just snap your pretty little fingers and she comes running over. Must be nice.”
It is nice, actually, but let’s focus on the word pretty. My pretty little fingers? Does she actually mean my hands or is she indirectly referencing my face?
I know I’m not much to look at, but she doesn’t have to be a bitch about it.
“I don’t understand. Why is it so easy for y’all to get service when I’m just standing here like a shit in someone’s punch bowl?” she muses, tapping her hand on the bar.
“Did you just call yourself a shit in a punch bowl?”
Her hand flies to her mouth, embarrassed. “Did I say that? Oh my god, I am so sorry.”
I shake my head. “Don’t be—it’s just not something I’ve heard a woman say before.” I’ve only heard it from men, usually when they have to take an actual shit. “Are you from the south? Y’all just rolls right off your tongue.”
“No, I just love that word and I love the south.” Her mojito arrives and she takes a sip of it before bowing her head. Unsnaps her purse and pulls out a $20. “Here, this is for the drinks. I appreciate it.”
A few things are wrong with this scenario.
$20 isn’t enough to cover her two drinks, but far be it from me to say so. I don’t want to embarrass her further. $30 is more like it—even $40 with the tip.
I’ve never had a woman pull money out of her purse to pay me before.
She’s expecting me to take it and I anticipate an argument—one I am not ready to have.
I hold my hand out and up in protest, pushing against the money in her hand.
“Keep it.”
“No really.” She flaps it in the air. “I insist.”
As I figured she would, a girl like Miranda is full of principles and ethics. Clearly she is not at this bar to find herself a sugar daddy.
“My treat,” I counter. “Unless you want me to leave it on the bar as a tip.” I have a tab open and all the bartenders know we’ll tip very generously so this is an empty threat, but Miranda doesn’t know that.
“What! Hell no—she didn’t give me the time of day!” The bill gets snatched back, shoved into her little black and gold purse. “I’m sorry, but no.”
I laugh, deep within my chest, and Miranda halts what she’s doing to watch, eyes going wide. Staring like I’ve sprouted a second head, and now I feel like I have, self-conscious and uncomfortable.
Immediately, I stop. “What?”
“Nothing.” She shakes her head in the way girls do when ‘Nothing’ means something. Bites down on her lower lip, smiling as she takes another dainty sip from her mojito, the alcohol probably muddling her brain.
She must be drunk; it feels like she’s flirting.
She cannot be drunk—she’s only had one!
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Really, I want to know. Girls don’t give me these looks, not even when they’re at my house, or in my bed, or spending my money.
“What look? I’m just looking—it’s not a crime.” She tilts her head just then, studying me. “How are you all so tall?”
“Who?”
“You and your friends. It’s like a giant convention.” Another shake of the head. “It’s so weird.”
I want to laugh. Want to tell her she’s adorable, and cute and funny, but instead, I drink from my cocktail to occupy myself. It goes down strong, the bartender having added too much vodka and not enough soda, and despite my size, it hits me in the head.
I lean against the bar, mimicking Miranda’s stance, settling in for a conversation, content to have the rest of the group—and the servers—ignoring us for now. I’m going to enjoy the anonymity, my drink, and this pretty girl for as long as it lasts.
“Weren’t you going to go back to your friends?” She toys with a mint leaf sticking out of her glass, swirling it around.
“I never said I wanted to go over there—you did.”
She looks bashful, and I can’t see it, but I know she’s shuffling her feet. “I just assumed.”
“Why?”
Miranda is beautiful and sassy, so riddle me this: why the fuck would I go back to my dipshit buddies when I could stand here in the dark and hide away with her?
“Because?” As if that explains everything.
I wait for more of a reply, casually keeping my lips shut, knowing she’ll elaborate if I don’t prod her.
I’m right.
“Because look at me! And look at them! I’m in jeans!”
A snort escapes my nose, then a laugh. “So? I’m wearing jeans.”
“Okay, well, look around you: all the women in here are wearing dresses—tight, sexy dresses—and
