His name was Muller. And he told me I was fucking adorable.
I was sitting at the bar, the way I love to when I want to write but my apartment isn’t offering any inspiration, macbook open to a blank sheet. The white blinked at me in her familiar, flirtatious way, giggling over what I may attempt.
It was impossible to ignore him. He was loud. He enveloped everyone around him, including the bartender, her bar back, and the line of folks at the end of the bar with me. Three of us had our laptops open and another had a thick folder crammed with important looking papers.
His companion was a brunette, an owl eyed woman whose glasses contributed to the look. Over and over, Muller exclaimed that they were roommates. “She’s into women!” he’d shout to share the not-so-obvious un-attachment.
Like I said, it was impossible to ignore him.
At one point, he raise his arms up and shouted at me, “Lady in the corner! Hey! Blazer lady!” I slowly turned my head toward him, raised my brow, and offered a small smile.
“You are fucking adorable. You have great hair, we have the same cut. I think you’re great, but she,” pointing at his owl-eyed friend, “she likes you more than me.”
I smiled my appreciation. I pulled out my fingers for a gun point agreement and clicked my tongue, “thank you.”
It’s fun to be a woman of few words.
I had heard them speaking of me earlier in the evening. He was telling her how my sea foam blazer was on point and that I was really fucking killing it, there in the corner, writing on my mac and doing my thing.
I like knowing that others simply just won’t know a thing about me and they may simply wonder aloud to their friends.
I like being a mystery in a blazer in the corner of the bar.
Unintentionally fucking adorable.