I've been excited all week, thinking about the concert tonight. And even better, it will be a night out with my best girlfriend -- no boys allowed. She and I have arranged to meet for dinner and drinks before the show. I dress carefully for the evening: a black, low-cut, fitted wrap shirt (I make sure my cleavage is extravagantly displayed), low rise, dark bootcut jeans (I check out my ass in the mirror -- it'll do) and pointy black leather kitten heeled boots. My hair is down and rather unruly -- going for a just out of bed look -- and my glasses are perched on my head, just in case.
I rush out of the house and into my car, popping the band's latest CD in the stereo. On my short trip I'm singing along and practically buzzing with anticipation. We've picked a place to meet just down the street from the venue and I find a parking place halfway between both and walk to the restaurant, bypassing the outdoor tables. I'm distracted for a moment by the tall, bespectacled man sitting at a table alone, hoping he doesn't notice my long backward glance, nor me nearly bumping into the restaurant's door frame because of it. I head straight to the bar, where my friend awaits. We hug and she pours me a glass of pinot noir from the bottle she just ordered. Before she can even take a sip of hers, her cell phone rings and she sighs, "Oh hell" while looking at the number displayed. Holding up her finger, she walks toward the back of the restaurant, immersed in her conversation. Knowing her work often intrudes on her off time, I go ahead and start in on my wine, drinking rather too quickly.
My elbow on the bar, head resting on hand, I see her coming back with an apologetic look on her face and I know what's coming next. "Noooooooo," I wail.
"Yes, and fuck me, " she says. "I have to go back to work. Now. Here, take my ticket. Find someone. Sell it. Whatever. I'm so sorry, but I have to go."
I just smile, shaking my head and taking the ticket from her, waving her away and shooing her out of the bar. Sighing, I sit back on my high stool and drain the remainder of my first glass and start in on hers. I'm in no mood to eat alone, so it will be an all liquid dinner for me. Already feeling the effects of the first glass on my empty stomach, I don't hesitate to drink the second at a speed somewhat less than savoring.
Chin resting on my palm and facing forward, I hear the bartender greet a customer and ask him if he's going to the show down the street. At this my ears perk up and I turn to see who he's addressing, somewhat startled to see the tall, handsome man from the outside table sitting down a seat away from me. Really interested to hear the answer now, I find myself feeling disappointed when he says he came by the venue hoping to buy a ticket but was told the show was sold out.
Do I really see the bartender cocking an eyebrow at me trying to catch my eye? I look quickly away and pour myself more wine, pursing my lips. Peripherally, I see the man glance in my direction, obviously puzzled by the subtle exchange between the bartender and me. I sneak a look here and there, taking in the black, pinstriped suit, the cute glasses, the long legs.
Three glasses of wine down and I slide off my stool and stand next to him, not really thinking about what I'm doing, thrusting out my right hand to shake. "Kara," I say, suddenly noticing my hand is trembling.
"Timothy," you say quizzically, taking my hand and shaking it firmly nonetheless.
I hold on to your hand a beat too long, looking into your eyes and trying to make myself speak. "I have a ticket," I finally blurt.
"Oh? Yes..." you say, still confused, though I notice your eyes straying to my cleavage, which gives me a little courage.
