Curtain call

As I leaned on the bar, with my hair curls flopping over my eyes, a beautiful woman caught my eye. I began to feed her, like one would feed a starving bird, with crumbs at first. I had something she liked and she had something I liked, and so we played a duet together, dancing our gestures across an imaginary net halfway between us. I guessed she wasn't listening much to the person she was with, for everytime they were talking she gazed in my direction. 

This had been my fourth pint in less that half an hour, therefore I began to question my attraction to her, reminding myself that this was a well-played record, heard many times - scratches and all. The light was dim, like so many of these places were. 

I wished I'd chosen a better shirt, instead of this old denim number which had clearly been around the block probably at least as many times as the record I mentioned earlier. And as for these old slip-on shoes - well, what decade was this exactly? 

To make up for my deficits, I took a time-out in the little boys' room running wet fingers through my hair and smoothing my eyebrows over and over. I looked at myself from every conceivable angle, then turned up my collar and unbuttoned another button near the neck. 

Heading back to my bar stool I took a detour in order to get a closer look. Indeed, she was pretty. I also caught a whiff of her perfume, sweet yet not overpowering - just how I liked it. As I passed her, I took the opportunity to look down her cleavage, glimpsed a black bra, and also glimpsed her boyfriend see me burning holes in his girllfriend's chest with my laserbeam eyes.

Back safely on my stool, I entertained two thoughts: that her knickers must be black too and also that her fella looked like a prick. Now, I wasn't just saying that out of jealousy, I was saying it because I had seen faces like his before - hard and unsmiling. I had named it an 'alright darling!' face, because generally that's usually what I heard spewing out from their mouths as a chat up line every Friday and Saturday night.

I wanted her to see sides of me that I wasn't. I wanted her to see sides of me that I wanted to be. Carefully managing the stage, I acted out the scene. Masking my fears with dutch courage, I handcuffed my insecurities with this facade. I controlled my every movement and expression with Spielberg precision, down to the last blink. This is for you whoever you are.

But it wasn't for her, it was for me. Like so many things seemingly done for others, this was done for me. And I wasn't being directed, I was the director. 

My mind took the bend in a flash and I turned my back to her for the first time. The curtain had come down on this performance, the audience no more. And as I sank into another drink, I heard somebody applauding in my head, either glad it was over or just grateful of the show. 

The phone texts that had been buzzing in my pocket for the last hour were from my wife. She told me the kids were getting hungry and wanted to know where the pizzas were. I said 'sorry', and that I was on my way.

Turning around to leave, I noticed the girl had left, just the dregs of her drink remained. But on closer inspection, and nearly missed, was a number on a piece of paper written in red lipstick. Above it was her name and one kiss.