I swirl the straw in my gin and tonic, watching the ice cubes clink and melt. The bar's dim lighting does me favors, I think. Soft shadows, amber glow. I'm not a knockout, never have been. I'm too skinny, with angles instead of curves, breasts that barely fill an A-cup. But my legs--those I can work with. Long, smooth, crossed now as I sit on the barstool, one heel hanging off my foot, dangling just enough to look careless.
I'm trying to look careless. Trying to look confident. Because that's what this whole thing needs, right? Confidence. I'm supposed to be selling the idea that I'm here alone, looking for something--someone. Not just waiting for someone to look back.
The thought makes my stomach twist. Nerves, mostly. Guilt, too. I sip my drink, swallow down the ice-cold burn, and check my phone again. No texts from Mark. He's waiting at home, probably pacing, maybe with a drink of his own in hand. He wanted me to check in. A picture if I could manage it, just for proof. For him, not for me.
God, it sounds so stupid now that I'm here. But we talked about it for weeks. His fantasy, his excitement. It made him hard just to think about me doing this, and it felt like it was all for him. That was what finally pushed me out the door. Not curiosity, not some secret thrill I was chasing. Just Mark's eyes on me, that hunger I hadn't seen in years.
So here I am. Doing this for him. Sitting at a bar on a Thursday night, legs crossed and hair swept to one side like I'm trying to be something I'm not. Like I'm trying to be sexy.
I wonder if anyone even notices me. The bar's half-full. A few guys laugh too loudly at a booth near the back. A couple on their third or fourth round tucked into a corner. And me, alone. Nervous. All sharp edges and the lingering taste of gin.
I scan the room and feel my pulse hitch whenever a man's eyes flick my way, wondering if he's the one who'll approach me. I wonder if I'll even be able to go through with it if he does. Mark's voice echoes in my head:
Just talk to him, Carla. Just see if you can get him interested. It doesn't have to go anywhere. Not if you don't want it to.
But it feels like it's supposed to. I can't shake the expectation, the pressure of what he wants me to be. The good wife. The hot wife.
And all I can think is, I'm not even sure I know how.
I check my phone again, knowing damn well Mark hasn't texted. It's only been a few minutes since the last time I glanced at the screen, but the silence feels like judgment. Or maybe that's just me, punishing myself for even trying to do this.
I take another sip of my drink. The ice has melted, watering it down to something bland and bitter. I should order another, but I hesitate. What if the bartender looks at me funny for nursing the same cocktail for nearly an hour? What if I stand out too much, or worse--what if I blend in so well that no one even sees me?
I'm supposed to be trying, aren't I? To put myself out there. To draw someone in with a smile, a look, a line I haven't even practiced because all of this feels so... false.
I tug at the hem of my dress, wishing I'd picked something different. It's black, because that's safe. Simple, tight enough to show my shape but not so tight that it screams desperation. I spent too long in front of the mirror trying to make my reflection look like someone else. Someone sexier. Someone who
wants
this.
Mark would call me beautiful. His fingers would slide over my shoulders, tracing my collarbone and dipping down between the small curves of my breasts. He likes them well enough. He says they suit me, fit perfectly in his hands. I've never been one of those women who draws attention by just walking into a room.
But maybe that's the point. Maybe that's why Mark wants me here, in this bar, pretending to be something else. Maybe he wants to prove something to himself as much as to me.
I can picture him pacing, obsessing over the thought of me with someone else. It's twisted, but it turns him on. Maybe it's the novelty. Maybe it's control. Or maybe it's some deep, aching need he's never managed to explain to me. He called it a game. Something fun. A chance to live out a fantasy.
But for me, sitting here alone feels more like a test.
I'm not shy, exactly. But I'm not a flirt, either. Never had to be. Mark was my first real boyfriend, and things just... happened. We met. We clicked. We built a life. Sex was part of it, sure, but it never felt like a performance. Not until he asked me to do this.
A couple of guys walk past me on their way to the bar. One glances over, eyes skating across my body without really stopping. Like I'm part of the scenery. It leaves a weird, stinging sort of emptiness.
I'm not sure what I expected. That someone would swoop in with a cheesy line and a smile, making all of this easier? That the whole thing would just... happen, sparing me from the awkwardness of trying to make it happen myself?
I hate this. The waiting. The pretending. The way my stomach knots up every time I catch a man's eye only to feel him glance away like I'm not worth the effort.
What if Mark was wrong? What if I'm just... not that woman?
The drink is gone now, ice slumped at the bottom of the glass. I tap my nails against it, a rapid, nervous rhythm that makes me cringe once I realize I'm doing it.
I should leave. Just walk out, go home, tell Mark it's not me. That I tried and failed and felt ridiculous the entire time.
But I can already hear his voice, thick with excitement and pleading, asking me to give it a real shot.
It'll be good for us, Carla. Good for you. Just let yourself go a little.
As if it's that easy. As if I can just shed years of habit and hesitation like old skin.
I drag my fingers through my hair, push it back from my face. I've been here for forty-five minutes and all I've managed to do is sit, drink, and second-guess everything about myself.
A part of me wants to prove him wrong. To go home and say,
See? It didn't work. It's not me.
But another part of me hates the idea of quitting. Of going back to him empty-handed, admitting that I couldn't even try.
I catch the bartender's eye and order another drink. Maybe I'm not ready to leave just yet.
The second gin and tonic goes down smoother than the first, the alcohol softening my nerves but sharpening the frustration. I feel like an idiot. Just another woman sitting alone at a bar, trying to catch a man's eye. I keep picturing Mark's face, his expression when I finally tell him how this night went.
Did you even try, Carla?
I'm almost ready to admit defeat when I feel someone slide into the stool next to me. He's maybe mid-forties, salt-and-pepper hair, decent enough looking in a business-casual sort of way. Button-down shirt, wedding band glinting under the bar lights.
"Can I buy you a drink?" His voice is low, confident.
I glance up, startled by the directness. "Sure."
"What are you having?"
"Gin and tonic."
He signals the bartender, then leans against the counter, angling himself toward me like he's done this a hundred times. And maybe he has.
"I'm Ron," he says.
"Carla."
He gives me a smile, but there's something tired about it. Not sleazy, just... resigned. As if this conversation is a routine.
The bartender sets the drink in front of me and Ron watches me take a sip before he speaks again. "Rough night?"
"Something like that." I don't know what else to say. I'm not supposed to sound desperate, but playing coy feels ridiculous.
He nods like he understands. Maybe he does. "Mine, too. Long day at work. Wife's been giving me grief about some bullshit. Probably why I ended up here."
There's a heaviness in his voice. Not anger. Just the kind of weariness that comes from years of fighting the same battles.
I find myself staring at his wedding ring. The way it gleams, obvious and careless. Like he didn't even bother to take it off before trying to pick me up.
"I guess we're both here to take our minds off things," he says, his eyes sweeping over me with interest but nothing close to excitement.
"Is that what you're doing?" I ask, unable to keep the judgment out of my voice.
