You’ve got to have standards

I’ve barely taken my jacket off when she approaches. I know she’s drunk before she even speaks; her sleepy blink and unsteadiness are dead giveaways. She shyly apologises for embarrassing herself at the Saul Williams gig, only glancing at my face a few times while fixing her unfocused gaze somewhere around my chest. For a moment, I have no idea what she was talking about before dimly remembering her telling me – drunk then too – that she always saw me around town. I do now what I did then and shake my head – smiling – and gesture that it’s fine. But she reiterates her apology. Several times. I grow insistent, ensuring her that she didn’t embarrass herself and everything is good. Eventually, she seems satisfied with her apology and my acceptance, but still she stands there. She looks me up and down. Her eyes are a very pretty blue, surrounded by dark eyeliner. Her face is young and delicate but dulled by the alcohol. Her hair is a long shock of black wavy hair, but one part of it – on her left side – is bleached yellow. My friends behind her are sniggering into their drinks as I stand, trapped.
“I like your style,” she says eventually, “It’s kind of 50’s, like, but… not.” I thank her, sheepishly and after a short pause, reply that I like what she’s wearing. She bashfully acknowledges me and says she’s going for that ‘This Is England’ look. I nod and after another pause say it’s cool.

And so the conversation continues. Slowly. We talk about music and vanity. She’s doing her Leaving Cert, but got suspended today for not attending class. Guess what age she is. “18?” I offer. How did I know? “Well, I suppose the Leaving Cert was a bit of a giveaway,” I reply (not to mention a turn-off). She guesses – correctly – that I’m 23. Every few sentences, usually after I say something, she’ll nod while staring – unfocused – at some point near my feet. There’ll be a few moments where nothing but the blaring sounds of the pub pass between us, before one of us says something. Often, it’s her, telling me again… and again how hot I am, how good looking I am. Flattering, I know. But what the hell do you say to that? I shrug my shoulders and thank her again and again, my modesty only more endearing to her. After the fifth time, it starts to grate.

I punctuate the conversation with trips to the toilet or the bar, stopping off to talk to conveniently placed friends on the way. But the sight of her sitting there alone, waiting for me to return, makes me feel bad and so I do, to continue the charade. But after almost 45 minutes and a third “Guess what age I am!” (Well, one assumes it hasn’t changed in the last 10 minutes, so I’m going to say… 18?), my patience had run out. I made an excuse about my friend having an emergency and got the fuck out of Dodge.

So, in summation, I had a hot young girl, literally throwing herself at me and I ran away. I am crap at being single. In fairness though, she hadn’t even done her Leaving Cert. You’ve got to have standards.