Page 16 of Dating Goals
The moon’s only a thin sliver tonight, and my phone’s flashlight only illuminates a small circle at my feet. This seemed like a brilliant idea ten minutes ago. The smart thing would be to head home. But the thought of lying in bed, staring at the ceiling for another three hours…
A branch snaps somewhere in the darkness. I freeze mid-step, heart pounding.
“Just a rabbit probably,” I grumble, pulling my coat tighter. “I couldn’t just raid the kitchen like a normal person.”
The cold air bites at my exposed face, and I wish I’d grabbed my scarf. Or better yet, stayed in my warm bed with my regrets.
The village lights twinkle below, looking deceptively close. But I know better now. It’s still a good twenty-minute walk down this winding trail.
Another noise in the woods makes me pick up my pace. Could it be a bear?
I’m not sticking around to find out.
My breath comes out in quick white puffs as I half jog down the trail. The village lights seem farther away now than when I started. How is that even possible?
My nose is going numb, and I can feel the cold seeping through my jeans.
Finally, the trail gives way to paved streets. The town square opens up ahead, dominated by the old church whose spire pierces the star-filled sky. Its clock face glows faintly. 1:07 AM.
I pause in the middle of the square, hands deep in my pockets, breath clouding in front of my face. The mountains loom black against the starry sky, their peaks lost in darkness.During the day, this square bustles with locals and the occasional tourist.
I make my way through the sleeping village. Stone and timber buildings line the narrow streets, their wooden shutters closed tight against the night.
Most windows are dark, but warm light spills from between wooden shutters here and there. Someone’s probably up late watching TV or reading.
Everything’s so quiet I can hear water trickling somewhere in the darkness, probably from one of those fountains where you can drink fresh water coming directly from the mountains.
I follow the narrow alley past a closed bakery that still smells like fresh bread. My stomach growls again, reminding me why I’m out here freezing my butt off in the middle of the night.
Around the corner, a faint glow catches my eye. There’s a wooden sign hanging from wrought iron brackets that reads “S’Holzfass” in old Germanic script. It’s creaking slightly in the night breeze. The windows are dimly lit, and I can hear muffled voices inside.
I push open the door, hit by a wave of warmth and the smell of beer. 99 Luftballons plays on the overhead speakers.
Inside, the pub is all exposed stone walls, dark wooden beams, and brass fixtures. There’s a handful of locals clustered around a worn table. They all turn to stare as I enter, conversations pausing mid-sentence.
I shake off the cold and claim an empty barstool, unbuttoning my coat. No bartender in sight. The men’s conversation drops to whispers, and I feel their eyes on my back. Someone mutters something in Swiss German, followed by rough laughter. I keep my eyes forward, waiting for whoever’s running this place to appear. The locals keep chattering and laughing behind me, occasionally calling out something in English that I pretend I don’t hear.
I drum my fingers on the weathered wooden bar top as the stereo switches to “Take on Me” when one of the men calls out in accented English.
“Hey, American!”
I look over my shoulder to face their table. They’re red-faced and grinning, clearly several beers in.
“Canadian, actually.”
“Ah, Canadian!” One of them raises his beer. “Come, drink with us!”
I hesitate, glancing between their table and the empty bar.
The smart play would be waiting for the bartender, but these guys aren’t letting up. They’re waving me over like we’re old friends. Something about those smiles and snickers give me pause.
“We need one more player, Canadian guy.”
I slide off the barstool, sizing up the group as I approach their table. The oldest one, sporting a mustache, pulls out an empty chair.
“Sit, sit! We are playing Jass. Do you know it?” He shuffles a deck of cards.
“Can’t say I do.” I lower myself into the chair.
