I didn't notice her when I first walked in, but by my sixth beer and second piss break, I'm wondering how the fuck I didn’t. She has these big doe eyes that beg to be loved, flowing auburn hair—the kind you feel the insatiable desire to run your fingers through. She takes her shots like she's never taken one before and looks absolutely defeated. For a defeated guy like me, that's a welcome sight.
Not that I wish for everyone to feel as helpless as I do. I can promise you, I don't. It's just… misery loves company. That's a saying, right? I'm the kind of guy who only connects with people who can understand my pain. Even if it's a silent understanding, it's an understanding nonetheless. To be understood in this life, I mean to be truly understood, it’s a gift. Not many people get to experience it.
And that understanding is about the only thing that could get me off of this damn stool. Everything in me tells me to go say something to her, but everything in me is also fighting the fear of failure, of rejection. I know she's looked at me. She's held my gaze. I'm not an idiot when it comes to understanding when someone may be interested in me. It's just the whole execution part that gets me.
She takes another shot, her face scrunching as it has with every shot before. It's quite endearing.
Before I even realize it, I'm standing, beer in hand, and walking toward her as though my legs are acting on their own free will. Her eyes never stray from mine. They're no longer projecting sadness but now carry an intoxicated twinkle.
I set down my beer and clear my throat. "Hi, I'm Jax. I don't mean to be a bother…" My heart is racing, temples thumping like rhythmic drums. I'm so nervous my palms actually start to sweat. I take a hard swallow and smile, flashing my teeth. Sometimes the smile is real, sometimes it's fake, but it always comes to the rescue when I need it to. It's my audible. "But I was wondering if I could buy you a drink?"
Smooth. Real smooth, big guy.
She coyly glances at the floor, grinning. And that smile is magnificent, the sight of it settling me a little. She puts out a hand and motions to the empty barstool.
"You can sit if you want," she says with a shrug.
I pull out the stool and take a seat, extending a hand to properly greet her. She obliges, placing her hand in mine, and I can’t help but appreciate how her delicate hand is the polar opposite of my own—beat to shit and weathered from the years.
"I'm Miranda," she says then slips her bottom lip between her teeth.
"Nice to meet you, Miranda." I smile, releasing her hand before quickly taking a swig of my near-empty beer. I motion for the bartender.
“You as well, Jax.” She averts her gaze to the floor then looks back at me, the timid smile still there.
There’s an awkward moment of silence before the barkeep stops in front of us, and I place a quick order for a beer. As he walks away, I notice Miranda hasn't taken her eyes off me yet. She's got this drunken, glossy gaze. It's goofy but equally endearing.
"Sorry if I was staring too much." She leans her elbow on the bar, her eyes dropping to her lap. "Shit, what am I saying? But it’s not like you didn't notice." She palms her forehead and shakes her head. "I don't know what… don't listen to me… shit, I'm drunk."
"If it's any consolation," I say, ignoring her last remark, "I was staring at you too. Hard not to. You're incredibly beautiful." The moment I say it, I wish I would've bit my tongue. Am I coming on too strong?
She looks at me, batting those beautiful eyes, her smile deepening and her cheeks flushing a deep crimson. "Thank you.”
The bartender places the beer in front of me.
"I'm not gonna lie"—she lifts her bottle then nods toward the liquor shelf—"without this, I probably wouldn't be talking to you. I’m not a very social person.”
"That makes two of us. My plan was three beers and then back to the house for a TV dinner and Sons of Anarchy. I surely didn't expect to meet anyone, but this is quite a nice surprise. It's been a long day."
"Oh, a long day, huh?" She shifts on the stool, tracing her finger over the worn bar top. "What do you do?"
"I'm a homicide detective. Been doing it a while now. It comes with its fair share of bullshit." I take a swig of beer and shrug. "But what can you do? Gotta pay the bills, right? What about you? What do you do?"
"Uh, well, I'm in school. Studying creative writing. Nothing too amazing or important." She clears her throat.
"Very nice. I'm quite the avid reader myself. Where do you go? UNC-Asheville? Warren Wilson?"
"Actually, I'm not from here. I am—well, was—only up here for a writing project, but I think that kinda fell through, so…" She takes a breath. "Well, I, uh… I should probably go." She nods as she hops off the stool. "Nice to meet you though."
For a moment, I'm left speechless. What I thought was a decent conversation has just abruptly ended for reasons beyond me. This is exactly why I don't approach women. This is just how shit goes for me. In the midst of my self-pity, I'm struck by the undeniable urge to be bold.