She sat within (very) clear view of the only decent-looking men in the room, revealing an indecent amount of cleavage and heels. She felt she needed a drink after the night she'd just had, so she stopped at the local pub on her way home.
After a few minutes of negotiation, she settled on a Cosmo with the waitress. Perhaps she would channel her inner Samantha with it, though in actuality she was craving the tea that she had left in her car from her just-aborted coffee date. However tea wasn't going to help her set the proper tone and get her head in the game.
Hockey on one side of her, European football on the other, she felt (as usual) painfully out of place. Though more than one she noticed one of the men at the other table glancing at her. He looked vaguely familiar - perhaps from an avatar photo on one of the plethora of websites she frequented.
She saw two old-school video games to her right - "Golden Tees" and "Big Buck Hunter." Very male. And more than a little hilarious with a pixellated moose shaking his antlers flirtatiously at her every few minutes. Possibly the most action she could expect to receive that night.
Why is it that all spots bars have such a love for bad 80's music? "Out of Touch" blared from the speakers. She was beginning to take it as a personal attack. Was she out of touch? What was she doing there anyhow?
She kept adjusting the jacket she wore over her bustier - surreptitiously showing more cleavage without trying to seem too obvious about it. Again, she felt like a fraud - who was she to think that she was the kind of woman who could transform herself into a seductress? The kind of women to compel a man to approach her through sheer force of will?
She felt like a girl merely play-acting. Aspiring to womanhood. Painfully transparent to even the most casual of onlookers.
She felt a ridiculous urge to keep track of the times the men at the other table glanced her way. Surely it had to happen by accident or pure happenstance occasionally. How many glances equated to an intentional "checking out"? Who could she ask? She didn't exactly advertise to her friends that she slutted herself up and frequented lounges as a social experiment.
An experiment to what end precisely? What did she hope to learn or accomplish? How to be sexy? How to find a man? She didn't need anyone to tell her that this wasn't really the optimal strategy for such an endeavour.
She suddenly remembered an idiotic reality show that she saw once training women on how to "date." Apparently it was an "alluring" move to delicately rub one's collarbone so...oh! One of the men at the other table did glance her way. Fascinating.
What makes a woman sexy? She strongly suspected that it almost entirely rested on confidence. A trait that she clearly did not possess in spades. She was also beginning to suspect that the glances in her direction were more likely focusing on the TV behind her.
Do men really care that much about breasts and cleavage, or is that just an urban legend? She imagined Freud would have a lot to say about it. Perhaps as a reflection of man's desire to return to the womb?
She rarely drank and found a few sips of her Cosmo had an affect. Not intoxicating yet, but certainly resulting in a feeling of...something. She wondered if it was horniness. A word she abhored, but under the circumstances it seemed rather apt.
Two young pups walked by, thoroughly dampening her heat. She found younger men completely unappealing. She preferred to be the neurotic one in a relationship, and younger men far too frequently claimed that role for themselves.
She wondered suddenly if the men found her pitiable. Not mysterious and intriguing because she sat alone writing, but rather pathetic and sad. Or maybe she was simply projecting her own insecurities onto them. Probably. But the doubt lingered, shaking her already tenuous grip on confidence and allure.
It was a neighbourhood pub, across from the last place she tried. Mores groups of the right kind of men came in than last time. Comforting. She may be able to try this place again. She felt safe close to hope - like she knew what to expect.
The drink was meant to be a prop, but she found it was rapidly being depleted. Mysterious. Fortunate that she could walk home if need be.
She found herself paying more and more attention to the hockey game. Edmonton was playing Phoenix. Surely this was a sign that it was time to go. She'd been there nearly an hour - she felt she'd taken all she could from the experience. And at $8.00 a martini, she felt she'd made her contribution. Until next time...