the elbows on the bar,
the drink swirling in hand.
The‘I’m not hitting on you,
I’m just chillin’ in your direct line of vision’act.
Black fitted button-down.
Hair screaming Wall Street after hours.
Head bobbing to Bright Lights
like he isn’t here for ass.
I've seen it all before. He’s setting up the bit,
fake-scanning the room, when in two seconds,
his eyes will accidentally find me,
and then?—
“Wait—don’t I know you?”
He doesn’t know me.
I don’t look at him.
“Swear I’ve seen you. Rooftop, maybe?
“You were wearing this same leather jacket.”
It’s a manipulation. A con.
Make her drop her guard. Familiarize her.
Slip past the boundary without her noticing.
Skip the part where she decides if she likes me.
Make her think she already has once before.
“Yeah. You had that mysterious thing goin’ on… intimidating, y’know? I remember thinkin’,damn, should’ve asked for her number.”
This is why I don’t go out.
Not only because I hate people,
but because I hate who I have to become.
People are here to flirt,
to fuck,
to feel something.
Ain’t knocking it.
