"Is that a Viking rune?" the young man asked nervously.
It was a late evening and he skipped a dozen empty bar seats just to pick one near hers. He was that obvious, even without the unpracticed conversation starter.
But the young woman merely glanced at him and said nothing. She just wanted to be left alone.
"Your tattoo?" he explained helpfully after a moment.
She scoffed quietly but very intentionally, with some sideeye. She had no interest in paying attention to him and that stung. He resolved to try harder, because all he wanted was to make someone notice him.
"No. They're tally marks," she answered finally, after a minute.
He shut up at that. She gave him an idle answer to an idle question, a gate shutting down in his way. But he'd try harder and pry it away from her. It was his mission tonight, he decided.
After a minute, he tried again. "What are they counting?"
She smiled at him and drained her beer.
"Number of men I've killed."
Three marks, like the treble isaz rune, he thought. His informed guess made more sense than someone putting plain marks on their skin. He wasn't trying to bullshit his way into it, it was literally his best attempt at an honest conversation but she fucking blew him off. And how appropriate, because isaz meant 'ice'.
"It was in self-defense," she explained.
"Well, then you're not a very big murderer," he smiled at her answer deciding to thaw her joke because it wouldn't do to sound smart. "My name is Tim. Can I buy you a drink?" he offered.
"No."
That was the sound of a deadbolt as far as bar conversations went. Before he could try to deflect it and profess his innocence, she cut him off.
"Look, I'm not being a bitch. It's obvious why you sat down next to me. Late, but not too late, and you're an 8 who sat next to a 6 and thought it would go your way. Save your energy for the wounded last call gazelle when she shows up."
"For the record I thought you were a 9," he said quietly.
She laughed out loud at that, because she thought she was a pity 7 at best. "Bless your heart, but lets not be dishonest about things," she said and prodded, "what are you, practicing?"
That made him seethe in anger because he was being kind and she shouldn't have called him out for an empty compliment. Fuck, this bitch was just being downright mean and for what. He'd only wanted to come out and, you know, fuck thinking about it, he decided he'd tell her as much.
"It was just boring at home, I couldn't take the silence," he confessed sadly, not quite understanding her.
She pointed around the bar, "Do you see a crowd here?" There wasn't one to be had and no noise either. He felt like a fool for thinking it, and twice so for saying it. Of course there wasn't any people-watching this day and time of night. Not on a fucking Tuesday, not here. Stupid.
Just as he despondently thought about leaving, she threw him a lifeline, "Fine, sure, you can buy me a drink. Name's Cheryl. But none of that bullshit boiled hot dog water over ice you're drinking. Tequila, Patron silver, lime slice."
She slid over to the seat right next to his; he waved at the bartender who just nodded discretely at his two raised fingers and started pouring without being told what. He knew her, Tim reasoned.
"Besides, what makes you think I'm not a libyan?" she asked.
"Aren't Libyans dark-skinned?" he asked in honest surprise.
"No, I said libyan. And they're not."
"Sorry, Libyan?"
"No," she spelled it out, "L-E-S-B-I-A-N," and repeated herself for clarity, "libyan." She shrugged at his blank expression, "fucking Eastern Shore accent," she muttered in a self-deprecating explanation.
His eyes widened in mild shock, very much corrected and very startled at realizing at just how thick her accent was. It wasn't something he could place, not the hick kind, just something very rustic-leaning that way. But not the kind of rustic he was familiar with, like a mild long forgotten backwater flavor. He'd definitely misheard more things earlier from her, he realized. Maybe she wasn't being harsh, that was just her normal demeanor? And instead he was just off his game? She had the kind of accent where you couldn't drop in on someone without being an outsider.
"Oh, lesbian. Right. Sorry, I misheard. Not that it matters, but are you a lesbian?"
"Not this month," Cheryl said and grinned.
The bartender brought down two tequila shots. While he stared in astonishment, Cheryl playfully downed both shots one after the other, both his and hers, and then punched him in the arm and laughed. It was a surprisingly tough hit, and he wondered about her. She didn't look stout, but she punched like she was. Somehow that random giddy action of hers made him smile, secretly glad he didn't have to drink tequila. She seemed lithe and despite her claim of a 6, she was a 14 in his book. Yeah, she broke the fucking scale. Beautiful dirty blonde hair, a naturally happy laugh, and she didn't put up with nothing and in his book that's where all the points went.
"So what are your hobbies?" he heard himself ask lamely. No one fucking used that word, he thought immediately.
She laughed at that and purposely annoyed him with her reply, "Having fun."
"Having fun," he chuckled kindly, "is how you feel when you do something, but what do you like doing?"
