I sighed into my drink, slightly fogging the rim of my glass. I looked to the side, counting the lines of grain in the polished wood of the bar. This was all I ever came to bars for, nowadays. I wasn’t scoping out potential mates like every other single middle class man in America. I wasn’t an avid prospector in “the hunt.” I was contemplating wood varnish. I led a charmed life.

I looked around the room. Some guys played pool and chatted quietly amongst themselves. A low-lit disc changer in the corner murmured inaudible lyrics that almost seemed to float tiredly in the air for a moment, then sink to the ground and die out. A few girls sat down across the bar from me, casually sipping their drinks and speaking to each other quietly every now and then. What a quiet bar. It was like every source of sound in the room was waiting for me to scream about how fucking lonely I was, and as much as I would’ve enjoyed doing so, I restrained myself.

I sighed once more. Aside from wood-watching, this was another one of my pastimes these days. All I could do was mope. Anyone I had tried to talk to only made me feel more disgusting about myself, so I don’t talk to anyone anymore. I try to not even leave my desk at work anymore. Is this really living? When the idea of sex or intimacy makes you want to throw up? I took another sip of my forgotten drink. I ordered it an hour and a half ago and I was barely halfway through it. Why am I even here?

I slouched onto the bar a little, ready to put my head down, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. Swiveling slowly to meet the face of whomever wanted me to move, I actually met the rather attractive face of a girl, maybe slightly younger than me. She had curly brown hair that was pulled back loosely, and sliver-thin glasses, over which peeked a pair of curious green eyes. I hesitated, and she smiled. “I was just wondering if everything was ok? You looked kind of depressed…”

“Erm, uh. Well, yeah, I uh…” I stammered. I started to feel the bile in my throat. I was going to be sick. She giggled. Each chirp of laughter jabbed at my gag reflex. But I couldn’t say no, maybe this was something I had to face. I hoped to God that I wouldn’t puke on her.

“I was just over there with a few of my co-workers,” she pointed over her shoulder to the group of ladies down the bar. They didn’t seem to care that she had left. “They’re kind of boring, and I noticed you had no one to talk to. Is it alright if I join you?”

She smiled at me eagerly. I started to sweat. I nodded, trying not to look as wide-eyed as Mister Bean. She smiled wider and sat down on the adjacent bar stool, and I sighed again. At least the hardest part was over, I thought. Now to try to act sane.

“So what’s wrong?” she asked in a sweet and concerned tone. I fumbled, not knowing where to start. I figured I’d forget the act and tell her the truth.

“My wife left me a year and a half ago for a woman. I think the only reason I’m still mourning is because I like mourning.” She tittered, but I didn’t know why I was funny. She said she was sorry to hear that, and she insinuated that she couldn’t imagine why something like that would happen. I scoffed and dismissed the subject.

We talked for another hour, during which my drink got much more attention than before, and was actually replaced with another one of its kind. She daintily sipped from a glass of wine. I wondered why anyone would come to a bar for that. She told me that her co-workers only invited her along out of pity. They spent the whole night ignoring her, and she doesn’t usually come to bars. She doesn’t really talk to people.

After another hour, my buzz wore off and I figured it was not only safe to drive home, but a good idea. It was edging on two o’clock in the morning, and I had work the next day. God only knows why it was that I decided to come to a bar on a Wednesday night. I offered to take her home.

She asked if she could come to mine.

I was a little startled, and I had no idea what to say. The sick feeling went away after I started talking to her for a while, but what if things got serious? Maybe she had inadvertently lured me into a false sense of security. Maybe the moment I got my belt undone, I’d vomit on myself. After a long hesitation, I decided to take the risk.

She got in my car and I put in a Rufus Wainright CD. At first I thought she was quiet, but at a stoplight I looked over and realized she had dozed off. I sighed in relief. Maybe this was just a slumber party.

Her name was Camile. She was Polish. She moved to America when she was six years old. Her accent was very faint, but cute. She worked for an admissions office at a local college as a secretary. For the first time in years, I actually wondered about someone else’s life. I was awash with curiosity. I wanted to know what she ate for breakfast. I wanted to know if she had a dog. I want to know how she lost her virginity. I wanted to meet her mother. I wanted to know her most traumatic experience.

I held her face and nudged her lightly to wake her up and let her know that we were there. She smiled and kissed me out of nowhere. My stomach began to feel a tad uneasy, but I ignored it.

We took the elevator up and arrived at my door. Already, her arm was fondly around my waist, and my legs felt weaker than a prepubescent boy. We walked in and she sat down on the couch. I noted that she had barely said a word to me since we left the bar. I walked into the kitchen and offered her some coffee. As I was reaching up into the cabinet to grab the coffee filters, I felt her arms slide around my hips. I turned, and she kissed me once more without warning, this time longer. I shivered, but it felt good.

She pulled away and slid off her jacket, threw it on the couch and sauntered into the bedroom. I stood there, amazed. I had a serious hard-on, my legs were weak, I was a pile of Jell-O. I was excited, I was scared, I was nervous, I was horny. I raced into the bedroom after her, and there she was standing, naked as a jaybird.

She engaged me and took my clothes off at an alarming speed. In nothing but socks and boxers, she steered me to the bed and straddled me. I started to shake. She started to slide down my boxers. I knew she wasn’t drunk. She didn’t even finish her one glass of wine. She came into the bar after I did with that same glass for three hours.

I propped myself on my elbows and told her I wasn’t sure this was a good idea. She looked at me for a moment with her sleepy green eyes and smirked. She lowered her head and suddenly put my dick in her mouth. My arms melted and I drowned in the mattress. This was no sickness. No queasiness, no bile. Every inch of my body tingled, and I whimpered, dazed with how unfamiliar this felt.

The next morning I woke up alone. I walked into the kitchen, stark naked except for my socks. I went to go make coffee, and there was a post-it tacked onto the package of coffee filters. It read, “Have a nice life.”

You’d think I’d feel used, but I felt like I had triumphed over something. In a sense, I had used her. I felt assured that I would have a nice life. I got ready and went to work, stopping on my way to my desk to talk to the pretty receptionist.

Ann Marie Awad is a freshman English and Journalism major and a Literary writer for Generation.