Charming, but single

Note: Part 1 is here. Read it first! We snagged some barstools and I arranged myself confidently, shoulders back, purse in front of me on the bar, my light-pink tipped hands folded in my lap, enjoying slow sips of wine as I caught up with Single Girl, made plans for the next weekend when Party Girl would be in town and successfully defended myself from The Blackberry's numerous attempts to pick me up. He was persistent. Hand on my shoulder. Snappy lines. Invitations to dance – to this I rather cruelly drew his attention down my smooth legs to the heels I'd perched myself atop – they were black and tall and bare, with a mere one-inch strap of leather holding my foot in the shoe. "I don't own many shoes suitable for dancing," I said coolly. He left me alone for a bit after this. I texted Prom Date, "At the bar. You need to save me." And then I engaged one of The Blackberry's friends in a debate about who would maintain control of the Senate in the election and the friendly bet of a drink was wagered. Then The Blackberry was back, with two women flitting around him, both in costume. One was dressed as Tinkerbell, with the reddest of red lips to accompany. I recognized her immediately as the woman he'd bent over Prom Date's lap and kissed weeks before. Her friend was dressed in a mishmash of black clothes with a purple wig messily placed upon her head. A homemade sign taped to her said, "Getting Wiggy With It!" I was immediately glad I'd opted against wearing a costume to the bar. The Blackberry teased me about being cold, about not liking him, about having an agenda. "If I have an agenda, then I would love to see a copy of it," I snapped back, as I sipped from my second overfilled glass of wine. He tripped over his words and came up with, "You know what your agenda is." "No, I don't. When you figure it out, e-mail me a copy." He motioned to Tinkerbell and started talking. "The last time I saw her, you had her bent over to make out with her." He denied it, but not very convincingly. He ordered drinks for himself and Wig Girl. They took a few sips and he announced that they should dance, and left their drinks by me, with instructions to watch the drinks for them. Prom Date arrived and a few minutes later The Blackberry was back, with Wig Girl hanging on him. They retrieved their unscathed drinks and he looked at me. "You snooze, you lose," The Blackberry said, shooting a pointed glance at Wig Girl. "Oh really?" I said, with as little interest as I could muster. "You have such contempt for me," he said. "I don't understand why." "You don't like me because I'm honest," I said. "And contempt is a strong word. I have contempt for murderers and child molesters. I don't have contempt for you." At this point I'd ordered a third glass, but switched to my own tab, figuring that I didn't need to mooch off of The Blackberry all night. Single Girl was chatting with a professor who was now bankrolling her drinks. And as I reached for a third overfilled glass of wine, I was starting to feel a little warm and fuzzy. Like I needed a hug and a long slow kiss. Like someone should be taking advantage of my prettiness. Like me. So I flipped open the cell phone. The Crier/Good On Paper was out of town. And I landed on The Nurse. Now, I am not particularly proud of this, but after careful consideration, I decided that the pursuit of hugs was worth a little embarrassment. So I sent him a message. "Ok, I know we don't hang out. I am kind of loaded. My place later?" I regretted it the second I pressed send. Single Girl (who works at the same hospital as The Nurse) chastised me. Half-drunk Prom Date pointed out that even if he didn't call me back, I'd surely be no worse off – I wasn't really losing anything by asking. This sounded reasonable to me. The Blackberry was back. He had Wig Girl cornered off two barstools away from me. He'd still flutter over to me at times to make a comment. He opened his wallet to show me he'd kept my card – but he unwittingly pulled out someone else's before he finally located mine. I turned back to my wine. Single Girl continued talking to the professor. Not getting a response from The Nurse was grating on my nerves. I couldn't believe he wasn't calling me. I couldn't believe I cared. The Blackberry escorted Wig Girl out, I assumed to take her home with him. "Finally!" I slouched in my barstool. "I thought he'd never leave." A few minutes later he was back at my side. "Where's your friend with the Wig?" I asked. "She went home," he said. "And I'm saving myself for you." And he came up behind my barstool and slid his hands around my waist, pressing his body in closer to me. And he leaned in and – inches from my neck – he began whispering in my ear. I felt his hot breath on my skin and I straightened up in my chair as he told me he was going home and asked in hushed tones if I was going to come with him. "I'm good here, thanks," I said. He left alone and shortly thereafter Single Girl took me home. I straightened up around the house – possibly because I thought The Nurse might call. A few hours later, I woke up sitting in a chair in my living room, still dressed, still tipsy, still alone.