You say that my skin feels like no one else's, That it's different somehow. But I don't understand, isn't a hand just a hand?- Ingrid Michaelson (Masochist)___________________________________________________I sit across from him at a bar on a thursday night, and sip my vodka cranberry, wishing things didn't feel quite so awkward.
So you're ready to start teaching?I try to create conversation, but it becomes more of a question and answer period:
yeah, I guess.What are you teaching?Political Communications.Oh. That sounds fun.yeah, I guess.A prolonged silence- I down the rest of my beverage, smiling weakly,
Do you need another?He nods in response, and I welcome my walk away from our table and up to the bar.
Two more,I tell the bartender, looking around at how empty the place is.
Is it always like this on a thursday night?He shrugs in response as he pours the beer and mixes my drink. The guy sitting at the bar beside me smiles at me, a big open smile that would be welcoming if he didn't look so awkward-
You're too pretty to be here by yourself,And I raise an eyebrow, wondering if he actually thinks I'd be ordering two drinks for myself.
I'm not alone,I motion back towards the table where he sits fiddling with his phone, and I can't help feeling the words are ironic, I might as well be alone.
Lucky man,The guy laments as I walk away, careful not to spill beer on my feet, I slide into the booth to tell him about the guy at bar.
He looks back at him,
Yeah. He's always in here. Hits on everyone.I don't know why his response bugs me, but it does, and we lapse into another silent period-
I'm so over this.