“She was super hot though.”
“What?!” I say to my friend sitting two stools down from me at the bar. “You can’t be hot without being smart. They’re like the same word.”
The waitress making a drink behind the bar snorts, smiles, and looks up at me. We make the kind of eye contact that only happens when two people connect at last, hungrily, across the endless void that leaves souls cold and alone.
This is important, because after briefly dating the nerdy girl who I had incidentally met several weeks before writing about her, I am single again. It’s okay, I’m fine with it. I’m balanced and stable and centered and ready to start awkwardly hitting on waitresses for your personal enjoyment. So here goes:
“We’re just talking about Miss South Carolina Teen.” I say.
“Oh gosh,” she says. “That poor kid. What kind of question was that, anyway?”
She was short and brunette, so, physically, she was pretty much my dream girl. She continued in a slow drawl that I chose to interpret as a deliciously timed and syrupy. “I watched the thing as it was happening. Most of the questions were idiotic.”
“Exactly!” I said to her, ignoring my friends utterly. They understand. My friends have met me before and encourage such behavior for their own entertainment. “I mean, answer this question right now: 15% of American kids can’t find the USA on a world map. What gives?”
“Uh. Well. Um. I guess give them maps? It’s a dumb question.” Again, she looked into my eyes and smiled, then started to walk away with the drinks.
“Exactly. See? I totally agree with you.” I totally agreed with her jeans as they walked away, swaying intoxicatingly.
I turned to my friends. “She likes me. Let’s have another drink.”
“She’s married. Let’s get out of here,” said the girl sitting next to me at the bar.
“Yep. Big ol’ ring.”
“Son of a. I didn’t even check. Why do I always forget to check?”
“I could tell that you thought you had a little bit of a connection, so I checked for you. That’s what friends are for.”