The bar he was in was dark, smokey, and smelled of thick sweat and spilled beer. There was a cacophony surrounding him. Dozens of people having conversations, some of them shouted, filled his ears, but even all of that wasn't enough to stop the words of the girl in front of him.
"Pig!"
He could tell that she wanted to throw her drink at him, it was in the shoulder twitch, but that would have wasted like eight bucks of bartender provided alcohol. Ain't nobody got the extra scratch to waste on that, no matter how badly they've been offended.
"All I was saying is that your clothes would look better with a few wrinkles in them." He saw the gobsmacked offended look on her face widen just a fraction more. "Especially if they were in a heap on my bedroom floor."
That was too much for the girl. With a singular "Hmmph!" she plucked her drink off of the bar counter top and stalked away into the crowd.
The bartender, who had been listening intently to this travesty, put down the glass they had been pretending to inspect. "Paul, my man, why do you even try? I haven't seen you swing and a miss this bad, well, ever."
Paul Furigan himself sat on the bar stool, leaned against the bar top, and looked at the bar tender. "I try, because there is a difference between 'won't' and 'can't'."
Paul knew that, on the spectrum between won't and can't, he was leaning more towards the can't end. He, like a lot of young men in State university, were there because the entrance requirements were fairly low. He was half way through a chemistry degree, more or less, and things weren't looking all that good on the outside.
Job market was shit. Science jobs especially were extra shit. As such, his job prospects were especially poor, and somehow every girl he had approached seemed to intuit that instinctively.
Perhaps it wasn't exactly instinct though. Paul knew he wasn't the best looking guy out there. Time in the lab, under fluorescent lights and above dangerous chemicals, hadn't exactly provided him with the healthiest looking skin. That would be relegated to those jocks in the sports programs with their sun drenched tans.
"Besides, Bill." The bartenders name was William. "If I don't try, then all those girls won't have any funny stories to tell later on. I'm providing an important public service here." Paul stretched his arms wide. "If not me, then who?"
"Skinny Pete." William picked up a glass that actually needed cleaning and started rubbing at it with a washcloth. "But last I heard, he got a girlfriend."
"Wait, shit, really?" Paul was shook. "You're telling me that red head, acne face, braces, Pete, got a girl?"
"Yup. Turns out there's someone out there for everyone." The glass caught the light from behind the bar and sparkled. "I think they're both in the literature program and bonded over Tchaikovsky or something."
Paul ran the various Russian sounding names he knew through his mind. "That's the composer, he did music, not books."
"Some Russian sounding name, I dunno, I'm in the food sciences." William set the glass down behind the counter top. "So can I get you another drink, or maybe a water to save you the headache later?"
Glancing around the bar, Paul had to admit that this last attempt was indeed his last for the night. "Yeah, a water, this is enough for one night for me." The girls that he could see were already in packs or pairs. Huddled together to make sure they weren't interrupted. No one looked particularly open to conversation that evening. Or at least open to conversation with a stranger.
"Cheer up Paul." William picked up the drinks gun and splashed some water into a rocks glass. "There's always tomorrow, or the next day, or next week, or the..."
"Yeah yeah." Paul snatched the offered glass and downed it angrily. "Bright side of life, greener grass, other side of the bed."
"Look on the other side of the place you get up from." William was quick.
Paul paused as he took in that last sentence. He politely set the empty water glass down and gave Bill a tight smile of thanks. Pushing up and away from the bar, he threaded his way through the crowd with only a minimal amount of stumbling.
The bar was still packed to the gills with the various university students who were all attempting to mingle, meet, and sometimes forget the previous week. Mid terms were coming up. The looming tests pressing on almost everyone's mind with an invisible pressure. So people needed a place to blow off steam.
The place to relax that evening was a faux Irish pub. William had gotten a job there because he was in the food sciences program, and didn't complain too much about below minimum wage, plus tips. The bar itself was called Hanrahan's. It's warm wood counter tops, booths, a healthy dash of the colour green, and had stereotypical servings of Guinness and Laphroaig to complete the look.
Paul pushed through the heavy door and out into the street. He got a sudden chill as the temperature difference between the two places hit him. The former warmth and press of bodies a stark contrast to the cool night air outside.
With only a tiny shiver, he set off down the street towards his apartment. That apartment a small miracle thanks to a lenient scholarship. He knew he had hit the jackpot when it had been available. The small bachelor pad studio space was not much more than a closet, but it did have a few special perks.
Paul lived there alone, blissfully, quietly, alone.
The apartment building came into view. It's tall brick façade a quaint throwback in comparison to the concrete monoliths on either side of it. Sure it was old, leaked air like a sieve, had pipes that were at least twice his age if not more, but it was home.
The heavy key on his key ring found it's way into the chunky lock of the front door. It twisted to the side with a satisfying chunk. The door, being made of steel and safety glass, was perhaps the newest part of the building.
A peek into the mailbox revealed nothing but empty space for Paul. In the recesses of his mind, he knew the mail didn't come until tomorrow, but habit was what it was.
The stairs up were always daunting, but he rationalized it by saying this was his only form of exercise. One foot after another. One heavy, leaden, foot after another. One aching, alcohol slowed, footstep after another.
Paul cursed some inarticulate words as his foot caught on the top most step. Only his hand on the banister saved him from falling flat on his face or worse. Thankfully, this was the final flight to his floor.
Through the stairwell door and into his hallway. A second key was produced for his door. It slide in and turned to the right with a much less satisfying noise. Now unlocked, the door was pulled open and he stepped inside to flip on the lights.
"Home sweet home." Paul thought. He looked around at his apartment for what felt like the first time. Probably because of the alcohol.
