Step
Step
Step
Down the bleak street. The only light source is the moon shining on the wet asphalt.
You have a routine.
Done every week after work.
A way to distress and have some human interaction.
Step One: Go to your local bar.
Step Two: Have a few drinks.
Step Three: Chat with boring, desperate people.
Step Four: Return to that empty box you call home.
Alone.
Fun times, right?
Doesn’t matter. You always go back.
How long have you been doing this?
.
.
.
Hm.
.
.
.
You’ve lost count.
Well, it’s been long enough for the bartender to remember your drink. And long enough for that stool to form to your shape like memory foam. Yet the result is always the same. You repeat the same cycle, hoping for something different. Is it a bad habit? Or the start of insanity? Maybe it—
Oh.
You’re here.
Time for step two.
• • • • •
Seated at the bar, at your usual stool, with your usual drink.
But something’s off.
The drink? No, it’s you.
The bitter flavor of rejection—the aftertaste of brushing off another desperate stranger.
They’re becoming more desperate, more annoying.
Time for a distraction.
You skim through the room—disinterested, detached, oh so done.
To the left, a group huddled around a table in a drinking contest. Slurred voices, clinking glasses, and someone already on the floor. They’re having fun.
On the other side of the room, two people are consuming each other’s faces. Ready for the kicker? It’s a guy you rejected last week. His bold approach actually worked. At least he found someone.
You continue scanning.
.
.
.
Once.
.
.
.
Twice.
.
.
.
Nothing of interest and no one interesting. Looks like step three is—
Wait!
At the far end of the bar.
Something new. Someone new.
But when did he get here? Judging by that half-empty glass, he’s been here for a while. Yet somehow—somehow—you’ve missed him.
Which is unbelievable because there’s no way you’d overlook this beast.
Muscles—thick, toned, carved. As if sculpted by Michelangelo. And the shirt—wow—the shirt is holding on for dear life. Stretched past its limits, on the verge of ripping.
You blink.
Is he even real? There should be a crowd. A flock. At least one person wanting to talk to him.
But there’s no one.
Not even a glance as people walk by.
Maybe you’re going insane. Some figment crafted from boredom. Or loneliness.
Then he turns to you.
BUMP
You lurch forward, almost off the stool.
“Ya-hoo!” It’s one of the drunk contestants. Wobbling, giggling to himself, and with no clue where he is.
You whip your head back to the bar’s edge.
To nothing.
Not even the glass.
Your eyes dart around the room—frantic, hopeful, desperate. To no avail.
He vanished.
Was he even there in the first place?
“Hey, you.” The drunk leans in. “Coob you pass meh sum money?” He reeks of sweat and something rotten.
You shake your head when—
THUD
With no warning, the drunk flings back onto the floor. The man—the beast—stepping over him.
He sits beside you, sips his drink, then looks at you.
“You weren’t talking to him, right?” he asks—low and calm.
You nod, captivated by his green eyes—intense and hungry. There’s a scar on the corner of his lips. An imperfection that serves as a warning.
.
.
.
But what’s stopping you?
Finally, you're having an interesting night.
Finally, someone worth your time.
Finally, you’re not going home alone.
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