I never expected to be a barfly, but it turned out to be a pretty good life choice.
Six year old Sarah expected to be a Disney princess. Hell, I looked like one; Snow White to be specific: black hair, pale complexion, rosy cheeks, ruby lips. My eyes are green, but outside of that? We could have been twins. Unfortunately, my prince turned out to be moonlighting in a whole library of other women's stories.
So there I was, a few months shy of my thirty first birthday, holding up the bar at Roy's, my favorite meat market. I know, I know, go on Tinder, it's easier. Admittedly, that can be fun if all you're looking for is a random hookup with some guy who thinks that holding up a fish in their profile picture really gets a girl going. But bars are so much richer an experience, a decidedly analog one in a world that's had a lot of its charm sucked out by the digital.
For the cost of a couple of overpriced drinks, you get an experience that can't really be replicated anywhere else. Want to people watch? You can see the whole panoply of human experience: desire, despair, delight, drunkenness, debauchery. And that's just in the D's! If you want to participate, there's a whole other layer to the bar scene: are you prey? Hunter? Bystander? Are you sure?
And then there are people like me, the old hands. If the hunt is the game, I like to be part of the metagame, someone that directs and redirects others to what they need, rather than what they merely want. Two years in the same bar meant that I was better known and better trusted than some of the staff. The other regulars were my friends; I knew that was kind of a sad statement at the end of my third decade on this planet, but it's better to have bar friends than no friends at all.
So it was that on a Thursday night I sat with a drink, my second and probably last of the evening. Some people, the young or the rich or the dumb, go to singles bars to get drunk. I drank just enough to enjoy the ambient excitement, the buzz of people and need and alcohol mixing together into a cocktail far more intoxicating than any mere booze, if one was discerning enough to enjoy it. And for that? I was an absolute lush.
I still liked to pick up a guy now and then; it's good to keep your hand in, and a girl's got needs. But the odd thing about going to the same place is that you have to be careful to not shit where you eat. The other regulars were mostly off limits; some I'd spent a night or two with, but not many. As much as any other social scene, the woman that gets marked out as a slut better want that label, or she's going to be miserable. Never mind that damn near every guy there would love to have the tag for themselves, except that they expected to change two letters and be 'stud' instead. But you can't spell 'stud' without STD.
Truth be told, the last few months had represented a real low crop anyways, mostly out-of-towners with tan lines on their ring fingers and desperation in their eyes. Some gals might not have a problem there, but they all reminded me of my ex-husband. They could go fuck themselves, because they sure as hell weren't going to fuck me. Then there were the frat boys that wandered in looking for a cougar and thought that any woman older than twenty seven counted. No thank you.
There had been that one guy a month before, the cute one whose divorce had gone through just that day. I'd happily have been his guide to the lands of the newly single, but like I said: I like to direct people to what they need, rather than what they want. He had come in with that young blonde "friend" of his that I pointed out wasn't just his friend, and they'd left together after snogging at the bar for what seemed like five minutes. Hadn't seen either of them since; I smiled at the thought of a good deed done.
And this slow Thursday night, I saw something refreshing: a guy who didn't want to be there.
They came in occasionally, usually one member of a group that was helping celebrate a divorce or a breakup. That was definitely what one of the guys in his party of four was doing: the others were slapping the newly single bro on the back and talking him up, buying drinks and toasting. Two of the hangers-on were here for the hunt, too, supporting their friend by trying to grab their own brass rings, making him feel more comfortable with his manner of celebrating. But the last guy? He was being supportive with his presence, but that was as far as it went.
The other three scattered. The fresh divorcé, marked by the thin streak of paler skin on his ring finger, made a beeline for a curvy redhead I'd seen in Roy's a couple of times. "Ro" something. Rowan? Whatever. She wasn't a regular, but regular enough that I knew she could take care of herself, and this guy seemed pretty harmless anyways.
The other two were intercepted by Jane, a relative newcomer, but one with an impressive body count already. I hadn't talked with her much, but I knew that she'd been a shy nerd that turned into a wild child after a bad breakup. I'd have given good odds that both of these guys were going home with her. Rowan was looking to find a guy for some fun, but I got the feeling that Jane was desperately trying to replace something she'd lost. I shook my head; we heal how we heal.
That left the last guy. He was a handsome dark skinned Black man about my age with short dreads and an undercut. Tall, and slim, his clothes were comfortable and appropriate to the bar we sat in, but only if the goal was to be as inconspicuous as possible. His manner, the way he looked straight forward, and how he sat all screamed, "I'm not here, don't look in this direction." Now this... this was interesting.
My initial thought was to simply do as he clearly wanted. But there was an open seat next to him, and I knew that, body language aside, one of the thirstier women would occupy it and bother him soon. I remembered the nights when I wanted to be left alone but still be around people, and I sympathized. The correct choice was obvious.
"Hey." I sat on the previously empty stool. "Sarah."
He looked up. "Oh, uh, Darius." I glanced at his finger; there was a distinct impression of a ring there, one that had been taken off just before he'd come in. But he wasn't on the hunt. A guilty conscience or something else?
"I'm sorry to bother you, but, well... I could see you didn't want to be bothered, and that just wasn't going to happen." He raised an eyebrow, and I chuckled. "You're a handsome, apparently single guy in a meat market. You're going to get hit on if there's an opportunity. The empty seat next to you? That was an opportunity."
Darius nodded and smiled slightly. "I, ah, I've been out of the game for a while. So, you're bothering me so that I won't be bothered?"
"Something like that. Bothering you for my own curiosity, too. But not bothering you in a way that'll get us hot and bothered, if that's what you're worried about."
He laughed loudly then, and his smile was dazzling. The laugh was good, too, a deep bass rumble that felt comforting as it rolled over me, genuine and warm. Maybe he wouldn't get hot and bothered, but it was going to be a struggle for me. "So you're saving me from myself, is that it?"
"Yeah, guess so. What're you drinking?"
"Soda. Designated driver." He inclined his head towards his buddy. "My friend Lee just got divorced, and I'm here for moral support."
That brought a knowing chuckle from me. "Well, I doubt you're going to need to fulfill your duties. Pretty sure he's not going to need a ride anywhere until the morning. Your other two friends, either."
His expression was dubious. "You seem to know a lot about me for someone who's just here to keep me from being bothered."
