Page 7 of Ewan

I’ve only seen her twice before, and I come here a lot.

It’s my favorite spot to hang out because people know me and leave me alone.

Women do what she does because my blue-gray eyes snag their attention. I get that a lot. It doesn’t matter to me much.

When you have it, you don’t care.

You don’t have it––like the dude perched on the bar stool next to me, trying to woo his woman––you struggle.

He’s been hitting on that flashy redhead cackling next to him for the past twenty minutes, and there’s no progress in sight.

She’s laughing all right, but she’s doing it at him more than with him. And the fucker doesn’t get the message.

I’d move to the table next to the window and drink my whiskey in peace but I arrived before them, so I won’t move.

It was his stupid idea to plop her on a stool at the bar.

To seem casual about wanting to get in her pants, I think?

What was he thinking?

Normally, I wouldn’t eavesdrop. And I’m not eavesdropping. I don’t care. I never cared. I’m sick of my own problems.

I don’t need to hear about other people’s issues.

But this is the place if you want to get laid at this time of night, only a few short days before Christmas.

Most people are more careful when planning to pick someone up to spend time with over the holidays.

It doesn’t mean the guy isn’t in for a ‘one time only,’ but she might know he is loaded, and she’s playing hard to get. So their one-night stand stretches into something more lucrative, like a nice vacation, gifts, perhaps, and maybe more.

I know he’s loaded, for a fact. And it’s not only because he drives an expensive car that isn't a rental, or he isn’t behind on payments and trying to score one last time before his vehicle gets repossessed.

He’s a fucker with an auto service shop here in Long Island, and he’s doing pretty well.

He has a nice house and all that.

I’m sure he could settle down with someone and skip the nasty pickup lines he vomits out for this woman.

To each his own.

I look the other way, trying to ignore them.

The place is small and private, with––for the most part––quiet dialogue, soft chuckles, and dim lights.

Someone put in the work to make it look homey with fancy Christmas decorations, piles of pine cones on the tables, and thick red candles wrapped in golden bows.

They serve food too, as they share a commercial kitchen with the big restaurant in the back overlooking the water, but most people are here for drinks and getting laid.

“Is he your friend?” someone asks behind me, and it’s not the redhead––her voice is screechy. And it’s not the barista, for sure. She’s more mellow than that.

I slowly move in my seat to get a view of the patrons at the bar.

A woman with long blonde extensions––don’t ask me how I know––arches an eyebrow at me.

The sucker next to me shifts in his seat as well.

“Oh…” he says when my glare punches him in the face. “He’s not with us.”

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