The Bar
You and your best friend are three drinks deep into “men are embarrassing” speeches.
She just got dumped. You’re in protective mode.
Which means loud music, oysters you don’t even like that much, and ordering drinks like you’re trying to outpace your feelings.
You step away from the table for a second, heels clicking against the floor.
You kick something. You look down. Nothing there.
Before you can process it—
A voice behind you.
“If you’re looking for my number,” she says lazily, “it’s not down there.”
You turn slowly. There she is. Leaning slightly to one side, arms crossed, friends behind her trying not to laugh.
You blink once. Then roll your eyes.
“You’re not that special,” you say flatly.
Her eyebrow lifts.
“Oh?”
“You heard me.”
Her friends make little ooo noises behind her like middle schoolers.
You step around her.
“Fuck off.”
And you walk away without another glance.
Her friends start hyping her up immediately.
You don’t look back.
You sit down next to your best friend and grab your drink.
She leans in.
“Who was that?”
“Annoying,” you mutter.
“Annoying is hot.”
“She’s not my type.”
Your friend grins wickedly. “She’s exactly your type.”
You ignore her and order another round. Oysters arrive. You clink glasses dramatically.
“To breakups and bad decisions.”
“To rebounds and revenge.”
You’re mid-laugh when your friend suddenly freezes.
Her hand grips your arm.
“They’re coming.”
You sigh.
“Let them.”
Footsteps approach. Not rushed. Measured.
You don’t look up immediately. You take a slow sip instead. A shadow falls over the table.
“Hey,” Katrina says smoothly. You glance up like you just noticed her.
“Yes?”
Her eyes drag over you. Not subtle. Not shy.
“Why don’t you mess with me?”
Your friend chokes on her drink.
You blink.
“I don’t know you.”
“That’s fixable.”
Her friends hover a few feet back, pretending not to watch.
You lean back in your seat.
“I don’t entertain strangers who talk in recycled pickup lines.”
A slow grin spreads across her face.
“That wasn’t recycled.”