Robbery In Progress

*Emma*

Am I the type of twenty-nine-year-old to hang out in a bar late at night? Or, ever, really? I wouldn’t say so.

And yet, that is where I’ve found myself. On a Friday night, no less. I’m also pretty sure that I’m at least tipsy, which is also very unlike me. In my defense, most of this was an accident.

No, actually, I take that back. Someone is to blame for everything going on right now, but just to be clear that someone is not me. It is my boss, Drew’s fault.

He’s the one that gave me news I did not want to hear at work and then proceeded to invite everyone out for drinks in this bar near where I live. Then, he bought everyone drinks, and then left. So now, here I am, by myself because all of my coworkers have gone home, sitting in a bar way past my usual limit of none.

So yeah, I’m a lightweight. Just as I’m about to get the bartender’s attention and ask for water, a woman walks in and slides right up to the bar and speaks to the very bartender holding the keys to my water.

“Hey Steph, just soda tonight.” She sits after Steph, formally “bartender” to me, nods in acknowledgement. It’s then that she notices me sitting in the chair next to her. “Hi, sorry, were you in the process of ordering or something?”

The question makes my face scrunch up in confusion as I feel my body start to withdraw. “Uhm, no. Why?”

“Your hand was raised. And you seem like you’re looking for something.” She replied easily. If I wasn’t intoxicated right now, I might recognize that those are very easy things to recognize. But I am, so instead I am impressed by her skills of observation, reluctantly but still.

Blowing out a breath in resignation I reply, “I was going to ask for water.” Without saying a word, this beautiful stranger turns to make eye contact with the bartender, who nods again as she sets down the soda the woman asked for.

“Water coming right up.” I took my turn to nod in acknowledgement now and say nothing else, but my eyes don’t leave hers.

After a beat I can’t take the silence anymore, “so, uh, do you come here often?” *Oh my God, did I seriously just ask that?*, I thought to myself and apparently the feeling was clear on my face because she laughed. “Sorry, that was-I didn’t mean for that to come out like a pickup line or anything. I’m not trying to pick you up, I mean not that you don’t deserve being picked up, because you do, I just mean-” I let out a frustrated groan, “you seem to know the bartender here well so that’s where I was going with the question.”

I can tell that she’s amused but, bless her, she chooses to just answer my question instead of commenting on that shit show. “Steph was my college roommate. I come here sometimes to hang out with her. But I wouldn’t say it happens often. What about you?” Before I could answer she continued, “to be clear, that is also not a pickup line. If I were to use one, which I haven’t ruled out yet, it would less cliché.”

Okay. *Okay.* I stare at her for a long minute, trying to process that information. Then I remember she asked me a question. “This is my first time here. Wait, I’m sorry, I need to come back to this before my brain can move on.”