Manic Monday (Pull)

Manic Monday Word of, well, Monday: Pull

You're at a bar. Not alone, because that would be a little sad, but with a group of lads you call friends. You've all got drinks in front of you and some of you are chatting animatedly. Not feeling interested with the current topic, your mind wanders, as do your eyes, to the bar.

Sat on a bar stool is the most beautiful girl you've seen in a long time. She has long, smooth, sexy legs and her cropped, black hair falls raggedy to her shoulders. Her eyes, when you catch sight of them, are deep and soulful. Her smile: infectious. But she isn't looking at you, staring into space instead.

You dream that she is your lover for a brief moment, before turning back to your friends. They have moved onto a more interesting topic now, so you add your thoughts to it. Then you see something in the corner of your eye.

She looked at you. You swear she was just watching you, but when you turn to check she had looked away. Back to your friends conversation you go, but more wary of your peripherals now.

It happens again. It feels like her eyes are on you, but when you turn they are suddenly on a non-existent something in the air in front of her. You watch her now, hoping she will turn and look at you.

"What the hell are you looking at?"

Your friend's voice brings you back to reality and presents you with your first dilemma. Do you admit your lust for the siren at bar? If you do, and she wasn't really looking at you, you're going to go down in flames and your friends will be their roasting metaphorical marshmallows.

Before answering, you glance back at the girl. She is looking at you! You make eye contact, she smiles wryly and turns away, blushing. Then she brushes her hair with her hand. You remember reading somewhere that organising hair is a sign of fondness, a psychological tic that subconsciously means she is trying to look nice for you.

Oh, what the hell! You tell your friends, making it sound as manly as possible. You hold your hands out in front of you and make 'Cor!' noises, to imply you like her for her breasts. After all, your friends will appreciate this more than her soulful eyes.

They all goad you into taking action, nudging you and miming rude gestures. Made confident by their positive attitudes and the alcohol swimming through your blood stream you down your pint, the perfect excuse to get close to her.

On the short walk to her, only a couple of metres, the adrenaline kicks in, along with the panic. You worry your breath may smell, but there is no way to check now; your friends are watching. Hoping like hell that the beer hides any really nasty smells, you stand next to her at the bar.

"Hi." You say, hiding your fear well.
"Hi." She replies, a little bashful.

You don't know what you expected her to reply, but suddenly you don't know what to say next. The cat has well and truly got your tongue. Luckily, the bartender asks you what you'd like the drink. You know the answer to that question: a beer. Being a gentleman, and in need of a conversation starter, you ask her what she would like. She lowers her head gracefully and asks for some apple alcopop.

The act of buying her a drink loosens both your tongues, and the conversation flows quite smoothly for strangers. You find out her name is Fiona and that she's studying psychology at the same uni as you. She likes cats but loves dogs. She comes from London, and feels a bit odd about country life. Her younger brother is six next week and she is going to be her sister's bridesmaid next summer.

However, you are only half listening to this spiel, nodding at the relevant intervals, because in the back of your mind you are analysing everything. The way she is cradling her bottle, the direction and angle she is tilting her head, how often she looks in your eyes; all of these are signs, in your mind, guiding you to whether she thinks you're an idiot or interesting.

You'd like to look to your friends, the same way ice-skaters would look to judges at the end of a routine, but you have your back to them and to turn away from Julia - no, damn - Fiona would just be rude.

You lean your hand on the bar, trying to act casual, and lean on hers accidentally. She pulls away, as if your hand was a red-hot poker. Oh, damn! That mean she doesn't like you, right? She wouldn't pull away if she thought you were sexy.

But she puts her hand back, resting lightly on top of yours. She squeezes a little, and looks up at you with her head bowed slightly. Either she's interested or she's drunk; either way you're happy.

The whole conversation reaches a new level now. You discuss the more intimate details of yourselves: your hopes, dreams, fantasies. You step carefully though, not wanting to embarrass yourself. Yes, you have a fantasy about Marge Simpson and some PVC, but now is not the time to unveil it. You have to be sexy enough so as not to seem boring, but not too 'sexy' to come across as a dirty man.

You manage this, without really know how, and she leans in close. She's going home, but doesn't want to take a taxi alone. Will you be her knight and take care of her?

Of course you will! Whilst she's in the toilet you race to your friends and immerse yourself in their applause, congratulations and high-fives. You're back at the bar before her, so she doesn't have a clue.

As she's leaving she stumbles a little and this small gesture makes you wonder how much she has had to drink. Are you just taking advantage of a drunk girl? Does it count if you're also drunk?

She gets into the taxi first and sits in the middle. Good sign, you think, or bad sign if she doesn't realise where she is sitting. You climb in next to her, close the door and she gives the taxi driver her address.

You don't know how you end up kissing. One moment you're sat next to her, then your hands find each other, then your eyes and, the next thing you know, you're locked at the lips. She tastes nice. Like apples.

You wonder how well you're doing. Should you use more tongue? Or less? Do girls really like it when you chew softly on their bottom lip? You open your eyes to see if she's reacting. She has her eyes closed, so you assume you must be doing something right.

The taxi reaches its destination as she has one hand holding onto the front of your jeans. She pays the driver with the other hand and doesn't bother grabbing her change before dragging you out of the car.

You spend at least five minutes kissing on her doorstep before she even thinks of searching for her keys. Sure, it may be cold, but that just gives you an excuse to hold her closer, your hand fiddling playfully with the bottom of her top.

She lets you in and the door closes, not only behind you but on the story as well. There are some things that should remain private. At least until you see your friend's tomorrow night.

But, and here is the point and the part where the start makes sense to the middle, after all of that worry, nervousness, uncertainty the whole thing gets summed up in the English language as this:

"You've pulled!"

As if the whole thing was the equivalent of grabbing her by the arm and pulling her outside.

Sometimes language confuses me.

:S

http://furubalunchbox.deviantart.com/art/Flirt-70832689