Talking To the Girl
By H.G. Miller
Jake turns his head to the left one more time just to be sure.
Yep, she's a beauty all right. And, she's smiling at him. Jake racks his
brain for some help with this situation. When was the last time a woman smiled
at him like that? His mom when he got of the plane at Christmas break. What did
he do? Gave her a hug, right. Yeah, but that's his mom. This is...
Jake now realizes he's spent more time thinking about his mother than thinking
of a way to get this auburn-haired goddess into bed with him. The two thoughts
aren't compatible.
Attempting to stall, he pulls his glass to his lips to drink. Only a few lonely
ice cubes remain in his glass. Tipping his head back, he attempts to slide a
cube into his mouth. Apparently, though, while he was watching the girl and
neglecting his drink, the cubes formed some sort of democracy - a one-for-all,
three-musketeers kind of thing - and now they attack him all at once.
Ice cubes over all over his face. Streaks of water with the diluted taste of
cheap bourbon and highly carbonated Coca-cola.
Shit.
“I'll bet she saw that,” Jake thinks to himself. A quick glance confirms it.
She's still smiling though. “Okay, Jake, play it cool.”
He sets the glass down and prepares to walk over to her.
“It looks like I'm empty. Can I get you a drink while I'm up there?” That line
might work. Or, should he go more sexual. “You don't have anything I can wipe
my face with, do you?” No, she doesn't seem the type that would go for that.
Jake realizes that being blunt isn't one of his stronger properties.
Unfortunately, the proprietors of this particular bar/club/happy-fun-time
bordello have elected to play hip-hop music at a level just loud enough to
rattle the glass of neighboring apartment complexes without actually breaking
it.
So, his subtle wit probably won't play well after he screams whatever line he
can come up with at this girl with an Axel-Rose-like inflection.
Think. Think. Think.
Don't cough; she'll think your sick and full of germs. Don't stand too close;
she'll think you're trying to rape her there in the bar. Don't smile too much;
she'll think you can't be taken seriously. Don't frown, either, she'll think
you live a sad life and have no confidence. Don't look at her breasts. Don't
stare too deeply into her eyes. Don't breathe your bourbon-breath all over her.
“Don't fuck up, Jake,” he tells himself. “Not again.”
Jake finishes his final approach to the girl. She lifts her eyes up to his and
turns her body slightly away, causing her skin to stretch across her neck and
shoulders in a way that defies all laws of physical beauty.
Jake prepares to clear his throat, but stops himself short, realizing that she
may hear the phlegm sound and be thoroughly disgusted by the very existence of
any human characteristics he has, thus causing him to lose the valuable ground
he's gained by making it over to her without tripping.
Here goes.
“Hey.” He smiles, but not too much. Puts a slight bit of weight onto his left
foot so as to appear comfortable and unconcerned.
The moment of truth...
Her eyes widen. The smile fades. She quickly glances to Jake's right and sees
somebody.
“I'm sorry. My boyfriend just got here,” she tells him. “I'll talk to you
later.”
Jake takes a few moments to admire the empty bar stool she so recently
occupied.
He sighs.