I did it again

I am that girl.

NOT. AGAIN.

I gave my number to the bartender.

!!

Whyyyy.

Okay. But really.

So.

He was into it.

He was?

I'm a stalker.

Okay, okay.

Okay.

I arrived fashionably late to dinner with girlfriends. I was the first to arrive, fashionably late. I felt dumb. Thankfully, the bartender called out my name when I walked in. The latest bartender I have a crush on. Of course. Isn't that his job, to remember my name?

We chatted for mere minutes before my posse arrived to make me look less like a stalker and more like a normal person, not one who has a crush on the bartender. Because who doesn't? How trite. He kept referring me to as his 'girlfriend' to my girlfriends, what with our brief history of meeting once before when he served me cocktails with me swooning like a schoolgirl. I wasn't sure if he was just socially inept or if he liked me. I never can tell with these men.

We stayed for a cocktail, moved to a table, ate, then moved back to the bar. I couldn't stop making googly eyes at him, catching his eye, him asking me questions whenever he got a free second, me learning about all the places he has lived, me requesting him to please please play The Smiths instead of whatever was on, him playing The Smiths shortly thereafter, him touching my hand for no reason at all. To pick up a glass. To emphasize a point.

Me wondering if I was drunk.

Me realizing I had to get my absolutely drunk friend out of there.

Me leaving my card on the bar and looking back, smiling, waving, apologizing for my lovely drunk friend. Giddy with the idea that maybe Cute Bartender would call me.

An hour later, a message: Thanks for the fancy card.

And it's on.