Sure, they’re pretty, but they’ve got so much makeup on, I’d never recognize them without it. Yes, I know this from experience. My last girlfriend wore so much makeup I walked right by her in the store one day when she wasn’t all made up. When she stopped me, I still wasn’t convinced it was her, and I might have asked her to prove it. She responded by throwing a carton of strawberries at me, and I had to pay for them.
But in my defense… Okay, I have none.
You live and you learn, I guess.
So no, I'm not interested in these women. I’m still hopelessly attracted to the woman with blonde hair and amber eyes, who has a dusting of freckles across her cheeks and nose and looks adorable when she wears her blue light glasses at work. My eyes drift across the crowded room and land on a table a couple of yards to the right.
A woman like that.
Wait, what?
I weave through the tables. “Lennox?” I touch the woman’s shoulder and she turns.
Her eyes go wide, and she looks behind me before using me to hide.
“What are you doing?” I laugh.
“Hiding from my brothers. What do you think I’m doing?”
I turn to see them approaching the women at the bar. “Don’t worry, they’ve already got a bet going. They’ll be occupied for a while.”
She relaxes a little, but still sinks further down in her chair.
“What are you doing here?” I ask her. She’s not drinking anything. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her drink and I’m sure she’s not here for karaoke night.
Her eyes get even wider, if it’s possible, and for the first time, I notice what she’s wearing. It's her black dress. It’s not so short that it’s revealing, but it doesn’t stop me from doing a triple take every time I see her in it.
“Just waiting for a friend.” She says, and fiddles with her purse strap.
“You’re waiting for a date?” Her boyfriend? I shouldn’t sound so shocked by this. She’s a beautiful woman and probably dates all the time. But that’s not a road I allow my thoughts to take. Ever.
Her gaze narrows. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“No. I didn’t mean it like that.” Crap, how do I get out of this. “I just didn’t think you’d ever meet a guy here.”
I think she’s going to get angrier, but her gaze softens. “You’re right. This is not my scene.”
I know what her scene is. At home, in pajamas, cuddled up in the corner of the couch with a romance book in her hands. The television has to be on though, because she can’t read when it's quiet. She grew up with brothers, after all.
My ideal scene is sitting right there next to her, holding her in my arms, and changing the television from her boring dramas to something with a purpose.
“So why are you here?”
“I’m waiting for a friend. He’s my uh…friend.”
“Yeah, that wasn’t convincing.” Why am I gripping the chair so hard?
“I’m…” She doesn’t have time to finish, because a man who looks like an Easter Island head sits down at the table.
Now I’m really gripping the chair.
“Hey, Lennox.” The head talks. Like that creepy museum show.
I swear I’ve had nothing to drink.
“Hey, Noa. This is my friend Grant.” Lennox addresses the head.
Why did she just call me her friend? I don’t even like her right now.
