Single Girl Dating Diaries: The Bartender

It’s been a few weeks since I gave Craig the old PF and it’s just around this time that I get nervous, nervous that it’s going to be a long arid desert of waiting for the next decent man to come around. You can never tell in this unstable dating economy of ours. So I headed to my favorite neighborhood pit to ponder this, and the bad news that my city is one of the worst for dating, over a few solo lagers. Yes, I drink alone, it’s not so bad really — and I don’t think it counts if someone is two bar stools over from you anyway!

I pushed open the battered old door and expected to hear Cheryl’s familiar voice greeting me. Cheryl is a 56-year-old bottle blond with a comforting raspy voice, a veteran of all I suffer through as a smart, lonely woman in this callous metropolis. But she’s not here. Where’s Cheryl? I could use a chat.

In her place, though, was him.

A face of professional nonchalance, an athletic frame that hinted at a sweaty soccer hobby, dark brown eyes, and the echo of a sneer on his mouth. A tough guy wise ass bartender. He leaned against the bar comfortably as I walked in, and gave me a nod of hello.

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in the world, he has to work at mine.

I looked around at the landscape, just a few other barflies, a few that recognized me. I was in a sudden panic as to where to sit. So I sat right at the bar, right in front of him. Why not.

For the next few hours we barely said anything to each other. He watched ESPN, doled out strong cocktails and cheap beer in cans, and there was very little chit chat. I sat right next to him, watching the same ridiculous array of stats and replays, slow mos and locker room interviews. He offered no commentary to anyone and I had a lot of opportunities to study his thoughtful profile. As the crowd picked up, he had to make more and more drinks. I watched his hands fly as he dropped in ice, twisted limes, added cherries, and hustled drinks with the coordination of a concert pianist. It was dead sexy.

I left that night drunk, and in love.

The next day at work, I consulted a girlfriend. ”Should I even bother with this? I only have a first name, no last name, so no Facebook reconnaissance is available. There was no ring. He’s at work. He doesn’t talk too much. I like that so much. Men today can be such talkers.”

My friend looked thoughtful as she cracked open her Diet Coke. “I don’t know. How desperate are you? I mean, this is a pretty hard case but you seem willing to take it on. Is he THAT hot?”

“Oh, he’s pretty hot. He’s exactly my type.”

“The type that can give you free drinks?”

“I hadn’t even thought of that till now!”

We cackle up a storm at this. But stop, she asks a good question, am I this ridiculous — shouldn’t I find a more accessible man? Accessible? What does that mean anymore, just one that I can spy on via the Internet? Read his profile, glean his interests, find his weak spots, comb back through his Twitter…

All that work doesn’t necessarily mean he’s going to be interesting. Part of me is piqued by the idea of pursing someone, completely old school style, without any help. But still, I might just be following my libido and wasting my time on an impossible conquest.

Then again, remember those odds. I’m going to go for it.