I noticed him standing in the window smoking. He had on a green cable knit hat and a heavy royal blue cable knit sweater that zipped up the front. The knits stood out in stark world of black bar wear. I've been knitting again so I've been drawn to knitwear these days.
I wondered when he'd arrived (found out later it was well before us) and I hoped with the heaviness of all my recent disappointments that he might have liked the look I had, my grey hat on my head, my green sweater, my multitude of beads. I was tired from working that morning, I was worn out from my day, my eyes were red and itchy from my friend Patty's cute cats (who I can't resist petting, even though I'm allergic), but despite all that I was especially happy to hang out with Patty and to be somewhere new.
The bar was colorful and a little harshly bright (those of us who are older find this somewhat stressful) and looking back on it, I realize I should have said I was in no state to go out that night, having had such a full day. For I was completely distracted by the men in the bar, new men I didn't know (as opposed to the cast of familar faces at my usual haunts) and doubly distracted by the notion that I was just as exciting of a prospect to the men as well!
My downfall arrived in the mouth of the knitwearing man who spoke within earshot of me, likely on purpose, and I detected a smooth clipped obvious British accent. Any hope of having a fun night out with my friend became a frenzy of looks and gestures and comments subconciously meant to solicit his attentions, which my bruised ego chanted would not work anyway.
I couldn't have been more mistaken. Apparently, the second I entered the bar and sat in his line of sight, his attentions to his company for the evening were thoroughly compromised by my very presence. He made it his duty to muster up the courage to vanquish his usually shy demeanor to speak to me.
And what we found waiting in each other was, in essence, simply a good time. And a boost of confidence to have good times with anyone.
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