To the Girl in the Bar

I’ve almost given up meeting someone in a bar. When I’m drinking, every girl I see seems prettier than the last and of course, less approachable. I am an unwanted blotch on the sheets that cover these avenues of hip gentrified Brooklyn. These trendy bars that are too well lit to hide my uncomfortable awkwardness isolate me even further. In them I feel as if I’ve regressed back into worst parts of adolescence if I’ve even ever left at all.

That’s why I pass the evenings at the cheapest neighborhood tavern that also happens to be the closest to my apartment. I sit alone and drink a locally brewed beer or whiskey if I’m feeling particularly depressed, or bourbon if I’m feeling self destructive.

It’s a very noisy Thursday when I see you at a table in the corner with your friends. You hair is jet, your eyes are grey and you look bored. People are laughing and talking and having fun, but not you. You stare into you gin and tonic trying to find entertainment from the relationship between the swizzle stick and lime wedge. Unfortunately for you, it’s a shallow marriage and they part quickly after one sharp stir. The separation of citrus and plastic causes you sigh heavily and rub you pale tattooed shoulders. You look around in an attempt to distract yourself from the conversation being held directly across from you when it happens.

You catch me staring at you.

Not just staring, but practically leering. I have been looking at you for about twenty minutes captivated by your every move. The way you brush your short cropped hair out of your eyes, the way you nurse your cocktail, the way you feign interest in your friend’s anecdotes. Every action is mesmerizing. I longed to be with you, hold you, comfort you and whisk you away from this dank inebriate filled cesspool.

But it’s too late for any of that. You’ve observed me observing you and I’m mortified. I jerk my gaze away as quickly as possible while trying to be nonchalant. I don’t pull it off. I feel like a voyeur caught peeking at someone changing through a keyhole. I’m nauseous with guilt and shame.

I can still feel you watching the back of my head. You must be repulsed at this sleazebag that’s been gawking at you. I know you are still looking at me and the urge to look back again is building in my mind. It’s like scratching a bug bite that has already turned red and raw. This can only bring more pain but I am compelled.

My muscles begin to act on their own and swivel my head towards you. I am fraught with anticipation and fear as I catch you out of the corner of my eye and meet your eyes once again. It takes every bit of strength not to fall out of my bar stool when I see you smile at me.

Again I wrench my head back to the bar and my half empty beer. I chug it down like a frat boy losing a bet and run out the bar. I feel so stupid. Why didn’t I say hello? Why was my first impulse to run away with out looking back? Why was my embarrassment so strong?

You could have been my best friend or my worst enemy. My one true love or my eternal nemesis. In leaving immediately I have removed all those options from our path. We will forever be nothing.

I think your name was Karen.