I scrunch my face.
“A fight? At your age?”
“Sometimes dudes fight.”
“Like a bar fight?” I ask, as if that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. “Was it here?”
The stranger looks at me curiously as he slightly lifts the bill of his cap. I get a good look of his other-worldly grey eyes and wonder what secrets lie behind them.
“Umm, no, it wasn’t here.”
“Oh, good, because if you’re one of those guys who gets violent when he drinks, then I’d have to insist that you find another place to sit.”
“No, that’s not who I am. I rarely drink at all, but I was sick of being cooped up in the house since the injury. There’s but so much Netflix one grown man can watch.”
I grin and nod in acceptance of his response, although I’m not sure I believe him. I don’t like to jump to conclusions about people because you never know what someone’s story is, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and call this guy like I see him.
Based on his appearance, my guess is that he’s around my age, give or take a year, but is still living in his mother’s basement. I bet he’s never had to work hard in his life because his looks have gotten him a pass over the years, but now he’s struggling. Looks can only take you, but so far. Maybe he gets into bar fights because he’s frustrated with himself and thought he’d be more successful by now. Maybe he’s one of those guys who thinks life has handed him a raw deal. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s him. He basically sounds like half the guys I went to high school with.
“And what happened to you?” he asks, parroting my original question to him.
“What do you mean?” I respond defensively. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“I don’t know many women who go to a bar and sit at a table alone all night. I’m not throwing any shade, I’m just saying there’s safety in numbers and all of that.”
I squint my eyes and cock my head to the side.
“You’re not some sort of serial killer are you, because I’m seriously thinking that you might just be.”
“No,” he chuckles. “But if I was, I’m not too sure that I would readily admit to it, now would I?”
“Touché.”
I take a bite of my chicken tender. It’s piping hot, crispy on the outside and deliciously tender on the inside, just like I remembered. Perfect bar food. Better than sex. Damn, I missed chicken.
“That taste good?” he asks mockingly.
“Like heaven,” I reply unapologetically.
“A greasy chicken tender?”
“I haven’t had chicken in almost two years, so to me this is nirvana.”
He sweeps his eyes up and down my body.
“You’re a vegetarian?”
I try not to take offense to his question because a lot of ignorant people (specifically my own mother) readily question me on why my thighs and hips are still so thick if I only eat vegetables. It’s a myth that all vegetarians or doctors are toothpick thin, especially when they enjoy French fries like I do.
“Something like that.”
“Oh, so you actuallywantto be a vegetarian?” he asks incredulously.
“What’s wrong with being a vegetarian? It’s great for minimizing chances of heart disease, diabetes, and cancer.”
“Right, but I’m curious. What was the one thing that convinced you to give up T-bone steaks and tacos forever?”
“Who said I don’t eat tacos?”
