I still haven't adjusted to going out without the other boys, they were always by my side—Niall always in my ear about girls he wanted to chat up, Liam being the dad and telling us to quit our drinking before one of us made a fool of ourselves. Did we ever listen? Absolutely not. Did I love him for trying? To the moon and back.

I will admit, it's nice to have the freedom of being on my own. No responsibilities, no obligated girlfriend to return to at the end of the night, just myself—though the mattress looks a little odd. On the right hand side, the side I consistently sleep on, has dipped a little, while the left? Completely neat and untouched. Maybe it's time I flip the mattress so I don't make too much of a crater.

The bartenders move swiftly behind the counter—glasses clinking, carbonated drinks coming from those hose-like soda guns that I still have no idea how they work. There's some overrated pop song playing on the speakers, but it's barely audible with the noise of the bar anyway.

"Can I get a refill, please?" A female's voice to the left of me breaks my dazed out trance, followed by the sound of a dull thud as you place your lipstick-stained glass atop the sticky bar counter.

The bartender grabs one of the cocktail shakers from the clean dishes rack and adds in some ingredients that I can't quite decipher—looks to be lemon juice, gin, and honey syrup?

Oh, bee's knees!—I think. Niall used to make it for us.

Once he garnishes off the top of your glass with a twist of lemon rind, you peel the tumbler from the bar top and then disappear. My heart twists with something similar to disappointment when you leave, so, my gaze follows you as your figure retreats.

You cease at the pool tables that are tucked away deep in the back of the bar, mostly deserted. I watch as you set your glass onto the play field which is bound to leave a nasty wet ring—I'm not even a pool player, but ouch. I watch as you twirl one of the cues in your hands, as if contemplating whether to play—you don't seem to have any company either. Maybe it's meant to be.

My feet are moving before my brain registers it, my first action is to move your glass off of the baize and onto a nearby table. You giggle and apologise, I just shake you off with a polite smile.

We both seem to be lonely—you're too pretty to be alone on this Friday night. So, I set a challenge.

"Beat me in a game of pool and I'll pay for your next drink" I lift my chin up in tease.