on boys and bars and thursday nights.

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)
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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.