The Bar Pickup Gone Horribly Wrong

"Is that a Viking rune?" the young man asked nervously.

It was a late evening and he skipped a dozen empty bar seats just to pick one near hers. He was that obvious, even without the unpracticed conversation starter.

But the young woman merely glanced at him and said nothing. She just wanted to be left alone.

"Your tattoo?" he explained helpfully after a moment.

She scoffed quietly but very intentionally, with some sideeye. She had no interest in paying attention to him and that stung. He resolved to try harder, because all he wanted was to make someone notice him.

"No. They're tally marks," she answered finally, after a minute.

He shut up at that. She gave him an idle answer to an idle question, a gate shutting down in his way. But he'd try harder and pry it away from her. It was his mission tonight, he decided.

After a minute, he tried again. "What are they counting?"

She smiled at him and drained her beer.

"Number of men I've killed."

Three marks, like the treble isaz rune, he thought. His informed guess made more sense than someone putting plain marks on their skin. He wasn't trying to bullshit his way into it, it was literally his best attempt at an honest conversation but she fucking blew him off. And how appropriate, because isaz meant 'ice'.

"It was in self-defense," she explained.

"Well, then you're not a very big murderer," he smiled at her answer deciding to thaw her joke because it wouldn't do to sound smart. "My name is Tim. Can I buy you a drink?" he offered.

"No."

That was the sound of a deadbolt as far as bar conversations went. Before he could try to deflect it and profess his innocence, she cut him off.

"Look, I'm not being a bitch. It's obvious why you sat down next to me. Late, but not too late, and you're an 8 who sat next to a 6 and thought it would go your way. Save your energy for the wounded last call gazelle when she shows up."

"For the record I thought you were a 9," he said quietly.

She laughed out loud at that, because she thought she was a pity 7 at best. "Bless your heart, but lets not be dishonest about things," she said and prodded, "what are you, practicing?"

That made him seethe in anger because he was being kind and she shouldn't have called him out for an empty compliment. Fuck, this bitch was just being downright mean and for what. He'd only wanted to come out and, you know, fuck thinking about it, he decided he'd tell her as much.

"It was just boring at home, I couldn't take the silence," he confessed sadly, not quite understanding her.

She pointed around the bar, "Do you see a crowd here?" There wasn't one to be had and no noise either. He felt like a fool for thinking it, and twice so for saying it. Of course there wasn't any people-watching this day and time of night. Not on a fucking Tuesday, not here. Stupid.

Just as he despondently thought about leaving, she threw him a lifeline, "Fine, sure, you can buy me a drink. Name's Cheryl. But none of that bullshit boiled hot dog water over ice you're drinking. Tequila, Patron silver, lime slice."

She slid over to the seat right next to his; he waved at the bartender who just nodded discretely at his two raised fingers and started pouring without being told what. He knew her, Tim reasoned.

"Besides, what makes you think I'm not a libyan?" she asked.

"Aren't Libyans dark-skinned?" he asked in honest surprise.

"No, I said libyan. And they're not."

"Sorry, Libyan?"

"No," she spelled it out, "L-E-S-B-I-A-N," and repeated herself for clarity, "libyan." She shrugged at his blank expression, "fucking Eastern Shore accent," she muttered in a self-deprecating explanation.

His eyes widened in mild shock, very much corrected and very startled at realizing at just how thick her accent was. It wasn't something he could place, not the hick kind, just something very rustic-leaning that way. But not the kind of rustic he was familiar with, like a mild long forgotten backwater flavor. He'd definitely misheard more things earlier from her, he realized. Maybe she wasn't being harsh, that was just her normal demeanor? And instead he was just off his game? She had the kind of accent where you couldn't drop in on someone without being an outsider.

"Oh, lesbian. Right. Sorry, I misheard. Not that it matters, but are you a lesbian?"

"Not this month," Cheryl said and grinned.

The bartender brought down two tequila shots. While he stared in astonishment, Cheryl playfully downed both shots one after the other, both his and hers, and then punched him in the arm and laughed. It was a surprisingly tough hit, and he wondered about her. She didn't look stout, but she punched like she was. Somehow that random giddy action of hers made him smile, secretly glad he didn't have to drink tequila. She seemed lithe and despite her claim of a 6, she was a 14 in his book. Yeah, she broke the fucking scale. Beautiful dirty blonde hair, a naturally happy laugh, and she didn't put up with nothing and in his book that's where all the points went.

"So what are your hobbies?" he heard himself ask lamely. No one fucking used that word, he thought immediately.

She laughed at that and purposely annoyed him with her reply, "Having fun."

"Having fun," he chuckled kindly, "is how you feel when you do something, but what do you like doing?"

"Having fun," she doubled down.

Fine, he thought. Pulling details from her was a chore, "Like what?"

Instead of saying anything, Cheryl reached out for the jar of business cards in front of her. It was the kind of promotional jar where you drop a card and it might get drawn for a free happy hour special. She grabbed a handful, picked through a few dozen of them and singled some out. Others she discarded in a stack. She grabbed her phone and typed the first number in from the stack.

"What are you doing?" he asked her.

She showed him her phone after a minute. She'd texted the number from the card, one clearly unknown to her. The bartender refilled her beer.

Her message behind the cracked screen read: "yo, at yacht club. place be poppin'. get over here rn."

He laughed, very surprised by the stunt, "is this what you do for having fun?"

Instead of answering, she grabbed another card, and then another, and sent the same exact text to them. When her phone started buzzing within seconds, he couldn't help but laugh at the variety of replies to her pastes. The phone was exploding, buzzing constantly.

- "who dis?"

- "wrong #"

- "remove me from your list"

- "unsubscribe"

- "mookie, that u?"

She giggled and pasted a response she sent to the first guy to everyone. She was up to a dozen numbers by now and going strong.

Her ultimate reply read, "crazy bitches here, get over rn."

He thought it was all an innocent joke until he started seeing a flood of initial replies changing their tune to all saying some variant of "on my way" and "be there in 15." They just kept coming. It made him laugh. Like a Venus flytrap, he thought. Fucking crazy. Unknown number, promise of pussy just being there, and people just fucking showed up?

Within ten minutes, small groups of people started trickling in. On a fucking rainy Tuesday. Incredible, he thought.

In twenty, the place went from a quiet hole in the wall to literally a place that was poppin'. Just like she wrote. Some of the early guys were clearly there looking for a crowd that wasn't, looked confused for a moment, but they themselves added to the little crowd so technically there was one and no one looked disappointed. Some brought their ladyfriends. Fucking place just filled up, out of the blue, and she made it happen. Unbelievable. Tim grinned at her in admiration, and she winked at him.

"See, having fun," Cheryl said and moved away to her old seat, "you don't wanna look like you're taken when the drunk gazelle shows up," she told him. Tim nodded at her wisdom, but was disappointed that she wasn't interested. A group of young women walked in and took up a hightop.

Some guy sat next to her on the other side; since they'd now sat a seat apart, the guy thought he had a chance. He nodded at Cheryl as a greeting when she glanced his way, pointed at her empty shot glasses and said the most inane thing he could at that moment, "you look like you're having fun."

"Yeah," she answered and earnestly laughed looking at Tim and back. It was their inside joke now.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked predictably but she shot him down by pointing at her now nearly full beer, so he had to try a different tack. "So, uh, what do you do?" he asked. Tim thought it was so fascinating to watch someone else take a stab at this.

"Recovery."

"Like, AA, or NA?" the new guy asked. Tim thought that it couldn't have been AA because she was at a bar drinking with them. He sighed, or at least she was drinking but necessarily with him, he couldn't draw that circle around her. But that new guy was stupid. Tim realized just how much he liked Cheryl and hated seeing her slip through his fingers.

She shook her head at the new guy, "no, recovery, see-toe."

"Seetoe?" he was confused.

"SEE. TOE." she enunciated for him, then spelled it out, "S-E-A-T-O-W."

"Oh. Sea tow," he repeated even more confused with the clarification. Neither the new guy nor Tim were remotely familiar with that kind of job.

"Yeah, I tow boats," she said, "just like rackurs."

"Jesus," Tim reacted involuntarily to her heavy accent penetrating through the bar chatter, and thought how he'd been here three years and didn't have a fucking clue there were people just on that other side of the state that sounded so different. That fucking different, anyway. It made him smile because that meant the world was bigger all of a sudden and it didn't make him feel so lonely.

She continued, "...ran a crabbing boat prior to that...," she trailed off slightly sadly, "...but then the blue crab population took a nosedive and in good conscience couldn't keep doing it anymore because there was so much else to do instead, so now you can reach me on channel 16 any day." Tim understood that was a radio frequency, but the new guy thought she meant TV for some reason, and it showed on his face. And yet she looked so young, she couldn't have been 30 yet. She had a crabbing boat?

The noise level at the bar picked up and they all had to gradually raise their voices to be heard. Cheryl engaged in a paced cross-talk with both the guy on her left and Tim and it sent both of them the wrong vibes.

"Is he your boyfriend?" the new guy finally asked about Tim when he got the sense Cheryl wasn't quite warming up to him.

"No, that's my little brother," she replied and winked at Tim.

"Fuck, friendzoned," Tim muttered quietly and nearly surrendered his hopes when in a manner of speaking she simultaneously told the other guy to fuck off.

She said so sweetly, "...and he doesn't like me talking to boys he don't know, sorry hun." Tim thought she was all grace as she cut the guy off at the knees, just amazing.

Just then as the new guy did gracefully fuck off empty-handed, the door draught announced a late newcomer. Cheryl leaned into Tim and pointed toward that direction with her brow, "...there's your wounded gazelle," she said just quietly enough to be understood. She then slid away from Tim, making a two-seat wide hole. "She's cute," she pronounced while ogling. Rest of the bar was now crowded except for that hole between them she made, so the girl made a beeline for it.

Between sitting either next to Cheryl or Tim, she chose Tim and Cheryl winked at him because that little choice signaled intent. The girl pointed at the abandoned shot glasses and asked him whether the seat was taken.

Tim brushed them aside and welcomed her to sit, carefully minding where his eyes went. When she did sit down, she did that not-so-subtle thing where she rested her impressive talents right on top of the bar for display purposes. Tim could not help but stare at her tits when she tried to look for the bartender. They stirred unwelcome thoughts, despite being deliberately showcased.

"Hi, I'm Anne-Marie," the girl introduced herself to Tim after realizing the bartender was busy, and asked him what he was drinking. She was beautiful, Tim thought, just that other side of the spectrum. Great smile.

"Well, it was chilled hot dog water until I switched to bottomless tequila," he quipped and pointed at his two empty shot glasses.

"Ha, you are SO FUNNY," she decided without fully understanding and flashed her fingernails at him, "I've never had bottomless tequila, are you buying?" In minutes she was laughing loudly and despite the receptive demeanor Tim was oddly disappointed with the two of them hitting it off.

Because he wanted Cheryl.

Because Cheryl was unique and punchy.

And this new girl was the kind of canned girl that laughed by looking up in the air and cackling equally at anything he said.

Cheryl turned away and worked her glass and minutes later overheard the girl say, "I like having fun..." She chuckled at that for what it was but smiled knowing this Tim guy had a decent chance at scoring. She was glad that his evening improved, because despite being handsome he was one sorry looking fucker when he walked in through the door.

The shots came and went, empty beer glasses got refilled from the remaining working taps, and then there was the case of a careless bottle slamming down and head overflowing and the ditzy girl wasting handfuls of cocktail napkins to clean it up instead of using an offered rag.

"Is she your ex?" Anne-Marie inquired loudly when she apparently caught Tim eyefucking the wrong person. The bar got even busier and noisier and yet despite the growing fun, the inevitable moment eventually came. The bartender whistled and banged on the triangle dinner bell. It was over the top, but it was the only kind of over the top to be had here.

Cheryl paid her tab in cash and left without saying a thing, but then double-backed to use the head. Just outside, she ran into Tim and the gazelle was apparently running off. It'd stopped raining.

"...But you live SO far away..." she drawled, "...there's more places open nearby, right? I don't wanna go home." Apparently Tim tried and blew his chances on a poorly timed ask and judging by his body language she was going to continue her barcrawl without him.

Cheryl, on principle, decided not to leave a man behind. She walked up to the two of them and slowly half hugged, half locked shoulders with the girl who smiled warmly at her, "...oh you are so friendly, are you his ex? He said no but I don't believe him, he says your name SO FUNNY," and she cackled at the dark skies.

Cheryl thought it weird that Tim shared her name with a stranger.

"Oh, no, we just met," she set the record straight, "...but my place is two blocks away, why don't we continue this party there?" she offered. Her imperfect but honest smile sold Anne-Marie on it. And then Tim fell in love because Cheryl wasn't ice after all. His heart was breaking in real-time; he now desperately wanted to get rid of the ditz and it almost happened.

"Heck yeah," the girl said, "I'm not ready to go to sleep yet," and laughed again in that peculiar manner of hers, flashing her nails.

"C'mon, it's this way," Cheryl started them off heading toward the harbor, and Anne-Marie's hand ended up in Tim's. He felt wanted, by the wrong person, but wanted nonetheless and that was so unexpected. This whole fucking night was a gamble with returns no one could predict. But Tim felt happy.

"Do you live down on the water?" the girl asked, suitably impressed, "...you must be rich."

Cheryl giggled and corrected her, explaining along the way. In short order she led them toward the marina where her boat was tied up, "it's cheaper than an apartment," she explained so anyone could understand it. She didn't bother mentioning the maintenance cost.

"OH, this is SO fucking cool," the girl woke up all of Cheryl's neighbors as she stepped aboard, "I've never been on a boat before." Her glee was child-like and even Cheryl couldn't mind her making the noise because it seemed genuine and if you have a slip in the harbor, you should just fucking know better than to expect quiet.

It was dim but her boat looked spacious enough in the brief tour she was asked for and gave - small kitchen, dining booth, topside living room with so much seating, a cozy bedroom tucked away and a nice clean bathroom with a shower. And a view to die for from just about anywhere, gleaming waves lit up by a combination of downtown and moonlight.

Of course, Anne-Marie's recap of that was more distilled, "SO fucking cool," she said again and asked, "what kind of a boat did you say is this, a 'bait liner'? That's SO cool." Cheryl didn't see fit to correct her.

As they sat there on the enclosed topdeck over soft music and enjoyed some mostly sweet liquor that Cheryl poured, Tim was overcome with a combination of feelings he hadn't experienced in a longwhile. Regret, and delight all in one. First and foremost to be welcomed somewhere by a stranger filled his empty world. He was so happy that Cheryl hadn't run off into the night, and so disappointed that Anne-Marie didn't.

And then Cheryl broke his heart by finishing her Grand Marnier and excusing herself to sleep, going belowdecks to her bedroom and leaving the two of them alone with a wink. Tim felt confused to have a stranger as magnetic and attractive as Cheryl play a wingman. It was bittersweet.

He chided himself for wanting the wrong bird in the tree when one was sitting next to him. Anne-Marie was one-dimensional, but at least she was here, warm and interested. Or seemed warm toward Tim anyway.

Anne-Marie gave him an inviting eye when Cheryl left, smiled a different kind of smile, then slid on closer to him. It was very sexy-like, and Tim felt warm.

"Don't lie to me," she leaned into him very huskily and put a hand on his leg, "that's your ex, right? That's why she left us here, right?"

Tim felt so weird because the unexpected touch was so welcoming and warm and he was unprepared for it. He denied her accusation but before he could articulate it verbally, she kissed him. While that wasn't unexpected, her hand immediately guiding his to her breast was. He kissed her back but felt that she got too pushy too fast. He wondered about her drunk-to-ditzy ratio at that moment in time.

"Your girlfriend is ugly," she told him between kisses a moment later, and he couldn't help himself. That was just mean. He pried himself away gently out of reach of her lips while she followed him with her whole body.

"She's not my girlfriend," he was adamant about making that clear. He had no reason to bother, but wanted to. And he felt so confused saying it.

Anne-Marie leaned further forward ending up on top of him, reset his hand right onto her breasts and stuck her tongue down his throat in a drunken dash. They made out for a minute when between breaths she insisted that he shouldn't keep lying, "I'm so much prettier than her." Before he could recognize that as confrontational, he felt her hand reach for his cock.

"Stop,..." Tim pushed her away gently, but she was on top of him now and couldn't be pried willingly, not without force. That's when her hand made it all the way into his underwear and grabbed his flesh.

"C'mon, let me suck you off," she said dismissively and started stroking it through his pants. On any other night, Tim would have let her continue but for a total stranger she was just overly possessive and the vibe she gave off was just so wrong. The cackling at the skies girl was gone, replaced by this manipulatively selfish creature.

Tim's voice cracked just a tiny bit, "you're not listening to me, she's not my girlfriend," he repeated himself sternly. What he should've said was that he didn't like Anne-Marie coming onto him so fast but there wasn't time to say it, he was just too busy trying to pull her hand out of his pants. He regretted his own hand lingering on her breast earlier because it invited her to escalate things.