A?N: Please, I beg of you, point out any grammatical errors or typos so I can fix that shit. Point out anything in general that looks like a mistake. Or anything that just seems to suck. I'd like to improve my storytelling, and brutal honesty would really help. Thanks!

"Anyone sitting here?"

"Not at all," I say, without really looking. She slides onto the stool, and out of the corner of my eye I can see her groping under the bar for a hook. I try to rein in my smirk as I think about what a risky move that is. I shudder to think of what might be stuck to the underside of that bar. After a few long seconds, she quietly 'hmphs' and actually leans her stool back off its front legs so she can bend her body forward and try to stick her head under there. There's a small sound of triumph as she locates a hook and hangs her purse on it. Then she wobbles, and I turn my body and shoot a hand out to grab the back of her stool.

There is a precarious moment in which I can't be sure whether she'll pitch forward again or keep going back, but then her hands are on the bar and the front legs of her stool thump back onto the floor. Then there is a precarious moment in which we are staring wide eyed at one another and I realize the random woman on the stool next to me has appallingly gorgeous blue eyes. I start to think about how that doesn't even making any fucking sense when she laughs, and so I bark out a short 'ha.'

"Thanks," she says. Her voice is pretty.

"Not at all," I say as I turn to face forward, because those are apparently the only words I know. I wonder why she chose the stool beside me when the next one down was empty. I wonder if she'll come to regret it if she gets a good look at my awkwardness.

She orders a beer and a glass of water, then slides the water glass in front of the empty stool. I admire her cleverness and tell myself I am not disappointed to find that she is waiting to meet someone. I tell myself I had not just been thinking of how I might strike up a conversation.

I am disappointed, though. I can see her in the mirror behind the bar: her head bent over her phone, the fingers of her right hand tapping at it as it rests on the scarred wood. She uses her left hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. Her hair is red and wavy and perfect like a Disney princess. She raises her head and I avert my eyes quickly.

I don't think she saw me staring.

I pretend I'd been turning my head in order to make eye contact with the bartender, which isn't such a bad idea since my beer is nearly gone.

"Another?" he asks.

"Please," I reply. He pulls me a fresh pint and sets it before me on a fresh coaster. "Thanks, Jesse," I say, pushing the empty glass toward him.

"Not at all," he says with a smile, and I know he's mocking me. Being a regular at a particular bar has its perks-I get super fast service, no matter how busy it is, for instance. It also has its drawbacks, like actually being friends with the staff. They see me, they know me. They like to give me shit. "What's on for tonight? Getting a burger, or getting drunk?"

"Getting a burger," I say. "Maybe later getting drunk. We'll see how it goes."

"Well, just so you know, I Iove drunk Beca." He turns around to punch in my regular burger order (perks, see?) "She's a really good tipper," he says over his shoulder. "She's also quite easy to carry."

"One time," I retort. "You had to carry me home one time."

"A memory I shall cherish forever, Beca, and I mean that. I really do."

I give him the stare, and he grins at me, but he takes the hint and refrains from elaborating on that little gem any further. I kind of love him for this, in a big brother kind of way. Just because I know I'm not going to be chatting up the hot girl beside me doesn't mean I want her to hear the gory details of me vomiting down Jesse's back as he carried me three blocks to my flat after I punched a guy in the face for trying to put his arm around my shoulders.

I keep cutting my eyes over, but she's basically always checking her phone. I check mine; it's a quarter to seven. I think that she must be early, or the guy she's meeting must be late, because people usually meet at even times. Don't they? I'm sitting alone at a bar on a Wednesday night, though, so maybe I'm not the best person to comment on how people usually handle social interactions. What the hell do I know?

Pretty sure it's a date, though, judging by the way she's dressed. In, you know, a dress. A very nice, very classy blue dress that brings out her eyes. Not that I'm checking out someone else's date or anything.

I, on the other hand, am wearing a black T-shirt with a tuxedo print on the front under a black and yellow plaid flannel. Because I'm the polar opposite of classy.

This is so stupid. Why did I order a burger? I should have asked for my tab and fucked right off the moment a beautiful woman sat down next to me, because nothing good has ever come of that. Sitting here thinking stupid shit about the complete stranger on the next barstool while she waits for her date to show up is not a healthy pastime. And where the hell is he, anyway? What kind of idiot makes a woman like that wait?

The kind of idiot who uses too much product in his hair and wears too much cologne, apparently, because that's the kind of guy who finally shows up and sits down next to her. I watch them in the mirror as they greet each other. He's kind of handsome, I guess. I hate him.

"Hi, I'm Brad. You're Chloe?" They shake hands. He gets to shake her hand.

Chloe. That's a lovely name. Had you asked me half an hour ago if I thought it was a lovely name, I'd have scowled and called you a weirdo and said a name is a name. Now it's lovely. Fuck my life.

"Yeah, that's me," she says cheerfully. "Nice to meet you."

"You're even prettier in person," he offers.

Jesse's kind of just hanging nearby, waiting for his moment to break in and ask for Brad's drink order, and upon hearing those words he turns to me and we lock eyes. At the same time, we mouth the words "Tinder date."

We love Tinder dates. Jesse's not into music the way I am, and I'm not into movies the way he-well, at all. But Tinder dates-shit, it's like someone created that app solely for our entertainment. The most fun we have together is watching Tinder dates. I wake up my phone and send him a text:

Beca: I have a bad feeling about this one.

I watch and listen as Brad questions Jesse about the beers on tap. It seems like he's trying to determine which beer has the coolest name. It also sounds like he doesn't know the difference between a pale ale and a pilsner. He finally settles on a hopped up IPA he probably thinks is a craft beer but which is secretly made by the King of Beers. What a douche.

Jesse forks over menus once he's served Brad's beer and checked on Chloe's and mine. Then he checks his phone and texts me back.

Jesse: I feel bad for her.

Beca: Me, too. He has shitty taste in beer.

Jesse: He doesn't even like it, I can tell.

I have to chuckle. I've seen guys like that before, ordering what they think is cool and trendy and then trying manfully to choke it down despite hating it. I love beer, I really do, but if the beer tastes like piss I will dump it right out and move on. It's another thing Jesse and I have in common: our beer worldview. We like good beer, we believe it's better to swallow one's pride over making a poor choice than to swallow bad beer, and we enjoy ridiculing those who don't know their beer or how to drink it.

I am enjoying a delightful altbier from a local brewery. It has a reasonable alcohol content, looks and tastes beautifully brown, and is literally named Altbier. It is not pretentious or fancy. It is just a good beer.

Jesse: She's drinking what you're drinking, btw. He's not worthy. You should get in there. Save her.

I have to chuckle at that one. I glance up to see him smirking at me. He knows damn well I couldn't work up the guts to chat up a woman like that if she and I were the only two people trapped in an elevator for six hours. I certainly don't have to sack to interrupt her date with some sort of damsel saving heroics.

I am actually considering moving to the newly empty stool at the other end of the bar, but they're ready to order food and I cannot stop myself from watching Chloe in the mirror as she sweetly asks Jesse for a salad. Brad orders a chicken sandwich in a manner that implies he maybe thinks Jesse is beneath him and will forget to make sure the mayo's on the side. Dickbag.

When he turns around to tap their order on the touchscreen, Jesse shoots me a silly face in the mirror. I fight my grin and fail. The guy is funny.

Brad is not funny. I can hear him telling Chloe all about how he's an amazing cook and rattling off a list of dishes he'd like to prepare for her. She is listening politely and nodding occasionally. I am unable to discern whether she's an idiot or just the nicest person alive. I text Jesse about it and he smiles when he reads it. He answers quickly.

Jesse: I think I might ask the cook to spit in his food.

Beca: Can I spit in it? This girl could do way better.

Jesse: Like she could do you, maybe?

I just look up at him and shake my head behind my upraised middle finger.

Jesse: I'm going to give her your number.

Beca: I gave your girlfriend my number.

"That's low, Beca," he says. "You should be nicer to me, I'm about to go to the kitchen and get your food."

For the record, Jesse's girlfriend is nice and pretty and I doubt I'll ever have to follow through on the 'if you ever hurt him' threats I felt obligated to make when they first started dating, but she is not my type. That doesn't stop me from taunting him though, because there was that one time she got drunk and draped herself over me while she explained the reasons why she's decided that if she ever decides to 'try it with a girl' that she means for me to be that girl.

"What? She's into me. And I'll get my own food," I say as I slide to the floor. (Perks.)