I wrote this a few days ago in the small hours of the night:
It’s the pub in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. You and your friends are out-of-place here – there’s a bunch of rednecks fawning over you, none too subtly.
I can see why – you’re young, gorgeous, with long, dark, straight hair – just how I like it, and you’re wearing a tight, short, single-piece red thing that nearly takes me off my feet.
But these guys are cringe-inducing – really lewd and loud, and all stepping over eachother like a bunch of morons. It’s funny and pathetic to watch – the air carries the dual scents of sweaty testosterone and evaporating estrogen. I refuse to be involved – I’m reading a book and drinking a beer.
And then you sit down opposite me and say hi. You tell me that I look familiar. I say that’s unlikely, since I’m 3000kms from home. We introduce ourselves and chat a bit. You have an english accent – Oh my god, could this be love?
We’re chatting about nothing in particular. After a little while I decide to dispense with the pleasantries and ask a loaded question – one which says more than it asks:
“So, how do you like the blokes here? Subtle, huh? Must be interesting coping with that…”
You stare at me blankly.
“Huh? What do you mean?”
I LOL on the inside. Probably not love.
I get up from my seat and go talk to the blokes. It’s not hard for me to blend in with them – If I laugh with them they’ll think I’m one of them. And now I can join them in laughing at you.