Charming, but single

After I left the show at the dive bar, I headed over to my regular cigar bar for a glass of red with Prom Date. I’d planned to do this all along – my other friends aren’t night owls as I am. While they turned into pumpkins at midnight, I was still looking for some fun.

As previously discussed, I looked cute – sheerish wrap top over a camisole, jeans, pointy heels and smooth hair, thanks to the bitter cold that scared away the humidity. I didn’t check my cell for texts before heading into the cigar bar, so I had no idea that The Blackberry had been asking for me. (Until I later checked my phone and saw a cautionary text from Prom Date. Too late. I was already in the bar.)

“Well there she is,” The Blackberry commented as I walked in. I was mildly horrified that the only barstool left was next to him.

“And she sits next to me.”

I rolled my eyes and ordered a Merlot. The Blackberry immediately started his pursuit in full force – complimenting me, doling out mild insults immediately followed by “I’m kidding! Just kidding, baby!”

I was having none of it and tried to maintain the cold exterior I keep up so well when he is around. The best offense is a good defense, especially when you’re dealing with a terribly offensive guy who will stop at nothing to bed you and any other woman in a skirt who walks into the bar.

The Blackberry made a point to speak of text messages from another woman who needed a ride home – joking that she needed more than just “a ride in my car, if you know what I mean.” He was clearly trying to bait me into showing some jealousy, though it clearly wasn’t working. As I clicked through some late-night e-mails on my blackberry, The Blackberry complained that I never texted him.

“I don’t have your number.”

“I’m only going to tell it to you one time,” he said, and then told me his number. I responded by sliding my blackberry and cell phone back into my purse.

“What was that?” I teased.

He repeated himself. Realizing that I wasn’t taking the number down, he showed me that he had me in his blackberry – but only the address I use for junk mail and online personals.

“See, I have your information.”

“You also have my blackberry number and e-mail address,” I informed him. “So, no, I don’t feel bad about not texting you. You’ve had my number for months. Because there is a process.”

He paid his tab and leaned over so that only I could hear him. In the lowest of voices, he made his final serious plea.

“You know you want to come home with me.”

“No.”

“You do, I know you do. You want me.”

“No.”

“You just live across the street.”

“No.”

Defeated, he stood up and announced that he was going to pick up the woman who’d been begging for a ride home. He made reference to a local figure, a notorious playboy, and said, “You know why he got a lot of women? Because he didn’t let rejection get him down. Nine out of 10 women may say no. But one will say yes.”

He paused as he stood up and walked over to shake hands with Prom Date.

“The law of averages,” he said, looking at me.

And then he walked back over to me.

“You were giving me this look like you were upset that I didn’t kiss you goodbye,” he said.

I rolled my eyes and turned my cheek, denying him a kiss on the lips. He wrapped an arm around me for a hug, but I looked forward and did not acknowledge it.

As he left, his friend said, “You do realize that he just called you a statistic, right?”

“I know.”

“And that was a pretty good line about needing to give you a goodbye kiss,” his friend said. “It caught you off guard and you didn’t have time to protest.”

At this point, the female bartender had to step in.

“Oh please, that is a terrible line,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Notice that she didn’t jump up and go home with him.”

“Amen, sister,” I said as I leaned over the bar to give her a high five.