The Poet

I like watching people. I can usually tell who comes to the bar to have fun, and who wants to drown out their dark thoughts with liquor. And if you're wondering which one I am...well I hate to say it, but I'm the latter.

I was surprised to see him there, in my local bar. He was scribbling away on a small scrap of paper. He wore a plaid flannel shirt and worn jeans. He had the hands of a worker, and he was sipping through his third gin and tonic. He glanced up, as if he felt my eyes observing him. He shared an awkward smile with me before he continued his writing, but I didn't look away. I never really understood why meeting someone had to be so awkward anyways.

I moved over to the seat next to him. He stopped writing and folded his hands, his eyes meeting mine. He seemed quiet and reserved, but the glint in his eye hinted a wicked sense of humor.

"What, you weren't going to come over and say hi?" I asked.

"I wasn't sure if it was really you or not." he answered with a half smile.

"Well who are you? I mean who are you really?"

He exhaled, "Well. As for my job, I'm a plumber. As for who I am, I'm just a pile of mistakes and broken promises shoved into this sad excuse of a body."

I smiled and he looked away. He was embarrassed at what he'd confessed.

"I don't have a job, " I said, "As for who I am, I'm a fucked up girl with a smile on her face."

"You don't look so fucked up to me," he said.

I leaned forward, my face inches away from his. "Look closer," I said. My eyes were challenging his and he met my challenge. He didn't move away at first, his grey eyes just searched mine for a moment. Then he leaned back in his chair.

"I really love your poetry. The ones you post online."

He seemed surprised and by reading his face I could tell he was slightly embarrassed that I brought it up.

"They're just stupid poems," he said.

"They're really raw. And powerful. I like them. It's surprising, I don't think I would've pegged you for the poet type a guy."

"Why not?" he asked.

"I dunno," I shrugged, "A plumber? That writes poetry?"

He looked down for a moment and I realized I'd offended him.

"Ah, fuck, I didn't mean that like it sounds," I apologized, "I just tend to put my foot in my mouth when I'm around good looking plumbers."

"You think I'm good looking?"

"Well yeah. And I like your beard."

"Thanks," he sipped at his drink, "I guess...I'm just not used to getting compliments. I feel like I've passed that age with the whole flirting thing."

"I disagree," I said, my eyes meeting his again. "I don't think anyone gets too old for anything. Besides, you're not even that fucking old. And I'm a lot older than I look. It's not my fault that I look like I'm seventeen years old."

"You look fine," he said.

I could feel the silence growing even more awkward and I searched my brain for an excuse to get out while I still could. I don't know why I even decided to come over here. To tell him I like his poetry? To tell him about how awesome I think he is? Shit like this never works out. And I knew it. I took a deep breath. My head was fuzzy from the alcohol.

"Umm...I should go." I said, grabbing my things.

"Wait, why?" he asked.

"Because I know what will happen. We'll have drinks together, we'll hit it off, and the next thing I know we've been dating for three months. Which I'm sure would be amazing, but then all of a sudden you won't like me anymore, and I won't like you. After awhile, we'll notice things about each other that we don't like. You'll probably hate the way I chew my food and I'll think you look weird naked. Or something like that. And it just won't work, and we'll just end up being hurt in the end."

"Let's just have drinks and we'll go from there," he suggested.

I bit my lip, debating.

"If it makes you feel any better, you don't have to chew anything and I'll stay fully clothed."

I smiled at his grey eyes before I sat back down, "Alright. I'll stay."