It’s been a strange evening spending time in my old neighborhood. I met my good friend for a dinner I couldn’t afford at a French restaurant I’d never been to (because I couldn’t afford it). I had a drink at the expensive bar I used to work at down the street, lucky to still get the employee discount from my friends who still work there.
And now I’m walking out of my old local haunt, disappointed to find that I’m still thinking about someone who’s let me go. Disappointed that there was no one inside interesting enough to distract me from the fact that after several months of no contact, I still don’t want to get over the curly haired boy I accidentally fell in love with over the summer. Doesn’t help that we met playing pool at this bar.
I didn’t play particularly well tonight. My two friends either left early with a girl or stayed late preoccupied by a girl (both nice girls, no bad feelings there whatsoever). And I cut my hair into a cute little pixie cut recently, which I do like, but in public sometimes people ask me my pronouns or stare at me for too long. I wonder if I look as appealing as I used to. Even before I cut my hair I’d been mistaken for a lesbian with some regularity, usually by women. I’m now wondering if men are drawing this conclusion as well… I’m drunk, but I hardly realize.
Two of the smokers on the street catch my attention, so I stop to talk to them. We played a few games of doubles earlier and I liked talking with them, they’re funny. We’re riffing and laughing and one of them tells me his friend who works at the bar (one of the guys I’ve never seen before) thought I was cute. I freely offer my new insecurity concerning my hair and suddenly there’s someone else in the conversation, a tall blonde guy who’s sort of charming despite wearing his baseball cap backwards. Everyone feeds my ego and tells me how pretty I am. They assure me that none of them, all men in their twenties or thirties, assumed I was a lesbian. It’s reassuring, but it also feels like a lie.
The tall blonde goes as far as to take my hand in his and spin me around flirtatiously. He then kisses my hand and tells me again how pretty I am. (What I really am is a sucker.) He introduces himself as Tyler. The two funny guys are going back in to keep playing pool. I try for an exit as planned, but I’m easily convinced by Tyler’s insistence to also go back into the bar and keep playing. It feels good. Attention always feels good when you’re the middle child.
We walk through the bar to the pool tables, the crowd has thinned out. It’s quite late. Tyler flirts with me and I flirt with him. We find seven bucks between us and I go to the bar to get us a beer while he gets quarters. The bartender already knows what I want, so our exchange is fast. It feels like what my friend had called earlier “the good old days.” Like I’m at Cheers, but I know I’m not.
Tyler’s all smiles as we share our beer. I’m all smiles too. I make a joke and he laughs and puts his arm around me. It feels really nice. We’re close enough it feels like he wants to kiss me. I make another joke, and then another about him having a girlfriend and he corrects me. He says he has a fiancee. I’m drunk with a beer in my hand. I didn’t even want another beer, even if we’re sharing it. I ask him, for real, You’re engaged? He says yes. I’m know myself to be naive, so I ask again. He says yes again. He asks me if that’s a problem. I ask him why we’re sharing a beer. Why he’s flirting with me so hard and why he put his arm around me. He replies so earnestly, like he almost actually believes this to be completely innocent: “I just wanna play some pool.”
I recoil. I’m drunk and I’m mad at myself. What an easy mark I am. And how infuriating to know that there’s a woman out there who trusts this man when she shouldn’t. I ask him how his fiancee would feel if she saw him with me. If she knew he was flirting with me, kissing my hand, telling me I’m pretty, and putting his arm around me. I’m reeling. His reply is something akin to a verbal evasive maneuver. I hand him the beer we’d been sharing and I tell him he should really think about his life. I walk away and get my jacket without looking back. I walk out and see the last old face I remember from the good old days, the bouncer at his post by the front. Nice to see you Shack. And thanks, Tyler.
I’ve been listening to a lot of 69 Love Songs by The Magnetic Fields. I am, in fact, a chicken with my head cut off. Thanks, Stephin Merritt.