The plan was simple. She was dressed to the gods, and someone would notice long enough to walk over and “say hello“— Then maybe propose—a short, simple, delusional plan. After tonight, he most definitely starts using “my wife”. The bass from the house music blaring through the speakers matched the thump of her heart. Yes, she was afraid but more determined than afraid— scratch that, she was desperate. If the bartender could serve her a drink for all the talking stages that amounted to nothing, she’d find herself in hospital for alcohol poisoning. In truth, this never really bothered her but running into two of your exes in one week will do something to you. She did not just run into them and move on. They shared anecdotes of how good their lives were, dropping the feeyan-say to what? rub her nose in it? And these were the useless ones. The ones she was sure nobody wanted. They drained her energy and her pockets. Well, good luck to the feeyan-says! It didn’t take long for her to start thinking about things and reliving all she quietly endured to be “supportive”, “nice” and all other crimes she committed against her nature. As she waved the bartender over, her eyes once again focused on the lean-muscled man, who served her drinks with a raised eyebrow as if to say, “Another one?” Yes! Another one, nosey- ugh she shouldn’t be combative, he could be the one or she might have to switch clubs. These men weren’t really asking her to dance, no one had walked over to chat her up, maybe a few compliments about the dress - so that wasn’t a waste and they seemed to go to the bathroom in pairs- the men, in pairs? She grabbed her purse and started to walk out of the gay club, wondering not for the first time, how much of this relationship problem was hers if she couldn’t even pick the right club.
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