I arrive at the bar with friends. They’re talking now, away from me. Smoke fills the bar and the music plays too loud. I try to listen to my own thoughts, but they’re dark and I decide to stay away from them. I’m nursing a drink on a barstool, trying to avoid touching other people. They’re close, the other people, and I don’t like people too close. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I’m the dark-clad stranger, sitting wistfully in the corner, knowing that my mystery will attract someone.

The fantasy runs through my head. How can a woman resist me? Who is that strange character over there? He’s been sitting by himself for the past hour. He must be thinking strange thoughts, to sit in the corner for so long by himself. I should go over to him and introduce myself. He may turn me away, but I must know what he’s thinking, what dark, important thoughts are running through his head.

I would welcome an interruption like that in my fantasy, but I drink the water-downed alcohol and look around for friends that I don’t want to talk to. I drank too much too quickly. I was engaging for a while, but now I’m depressed. I want to go home but I don’t want to fight through the crowd to find out where home would take me. There are too many people between my friends and me. I would push through them and end up swinging. I can’t think with the music going on. Who plays music this loud? My voice is gone because of the smoke and the music and the screaming. I’m not a good talker. I talk from my throat, which rips it roar before the evening starts. The smoke did not make it much better.

A girl walks over and smiles. I stare, mysterious-like, and she walks by. I replay the encounter in my head, and I say something to her, but I can’t make out her response. She’s gone now. If I had to do it again, I’d say something, perhaps something clever. She probably wondered who I was and what I was thinking, being such a mysterious stranger sitting on the bar and thinking deep thoughts. That’s what I do, think deep dark thoughts as if I had something to say in the middle of the night on an evening like that.

The dance floor is filling up and people are moving, balancing drinks in their right hands and cigarettes in their left. The lights are flashing, sparkling, and blinding me as I begin nodding my head. Girls like that. They can see that I have a beat, that I can move, which they know would translate into bed moves; Not that I know much of those. I do know it’s a matter of time before another girl smiles, and this time I’m ready. I practice my smiles, pushing past my half smile to show teeth. The same girl comes back to the bar. Her friends must drink a lot. I then realize she works here. In her black outfit, I didn’t see where the black apron holding her pad. She smiles again and approaches.

“You want something?”

“I’m good,” I say and look away. She’s looking for money. Even had I smiled earlier, she wouldn’t have been impressed. She’s pretty, though, small with dark hair. Twenty earrings pierce one of her ears, and I’m impressed that she endured that much pain to accessorize her ear. I begin to watch her as she walks back and forth. Her clothing is tight and I enjoy it. She smiles but doesn’t come back. She’s probably scared of the mysterious guy.

I begin to have fantasies about her, about how she asks me to stay after her shift to talk. One of my friends, Brian, comes up to me and strikes up a conversation, breaking my fantasy. He says things and I smile and sip my drink. The ice is gone and the water does not mix well with the liquor. I respond in short answers, which I assume will show off my dark nature to the girls around me. None of them seems to pay attention and Brian loses interest. He asks if I want a drink and I wave him off, as if to say, I still have this drink, and that’ll do me for a while.

The waitress doesn’t come back, and I don’t blame her. She has money to make, and she doesn’t want to waste her time with my dark, mysterious look. I’ve held the same drink since I arrived here. A fight breaks out across the dance floor. It entertains me for a bit, but after the bouncers drag out the smaller guy who had his face punched in, I loose interest. I should have brought a book or something. That would make me appear even more mysterious. Who brings a book to a bar, they would say, the beautiful woman, that is. He must be one of those intellectuals who can impress me with his readings and deep thoughts. That’s me, deep and thoughtful.

I’m not the only mysterious man in the bar. An older man, grizzled with a white beard and mustache, sits across the bar. He wears thick, rounded eyeglasses and sits before a line of empty shot glasses. He’s sipping his latest and gesturing outrageously to those around him. He’s created a little space, and I’m jealous because I lack space. The wall I’m holding up is wood and a bit sticky. I lean an elbow against the wooden drink table and study those around me.

A woman in a red shirt looks over to me. She’s chubby but has a cute face. I try out my smile on her and she looks away. I study her for a bit, but there are no more interactions. My friends are dancing now. They wave for me to join them and I point to my drink as if to say after I finish. I ignore their strange looks and keep an eye out for the waitress. She’s wears blue converse sneakers and has a pencil through her hair bun. I think she dyed her hair red, but it’s hard to see in the light. She comes over and asks if I want anything, a drink. I croak out “water,” and she smiles, and goes away. I don’t expect her to return. There’s not much in the way of tips for a water delivery.

The music has changed from hard dancing to slow dancing with a methodical bass beat. The dancers have coupled off, and many drunks are holding onto their conquests, whispering into each other’s ears or kissing on the dance floor. Two girls stand up on the stage in front of the DJ and dance, their drinks held over their head, and their bellies visible as their arms pull up their short blouses. I watch them dance, but the lights annoy me and I look away.

Why can’t I be like these people, I ask myself not for the first time. They seem happy, they enjoy what they’re doing, dancing around the room, drinking and talking and flirting. I could do that, the talking and flirting, and even the dancing. But I don’t want to. If I were drunk enough, I’d be there. But my drunkenness doesn’t last long enough. After drinking for a bit, my throat refuses to swallow more alcohol. It knows better than I do when I’m in danger of puking. Once I stop drinking for a bit, I don’t want to drink again. I’m not a bar person. I go because my friends drag me and I keep thinking this time will be different. This time I’d get into a philosophical discussion with a hot blonde with an amazing body, who will look at me and know in that way you look at a good book and know you’re going to enjoy it. But it has never happened. They’re not looking for that. They’re looking for a fun fling that might turn into something else. They’re looking for a fraternity guy who can introduce her to his friends. They’re looking for someone important, someone who will give them a good time. I can’t give them a good time. I only know how to complain and brood.

The waitress comes back with my water and I pull out two-dollar bills from my black leather wallet. I think how much cooler I would be if a silver chain attached my wallet to my belt, but then I remember I don’t even wear a belt. She smiles when I give her the money and walks away. She’s cute from behind. I should have told her that. Too late now. I put what remains of my alcoholic drink on the small table and hold the water, taking sips to soothe my burning throat. The cigarette smoke is thick, and I smell the unmistakable odor of pot. I should have smoked pot before coming, but I don’t do drugs. I’m too prim and mysterious for pot. What would that teach me anyway?

The bar gets crowded, and many groups eye the small table I lean over. They want my standing room, but I glare back at them, daring them to cross into my space and try to take it. I should have peed along its borders. I don’t want them to violate my space because I found this good space with a wall that needed holding and a view of the dance floor. I haven’t been bothered but that seems to be changing as others place their drinks down on my table, elbowing into my space.

My friends get me at 11pm and say they’ve had enough. I look longingly at the waitress, who delivers drinks to the table near mine, and agree with them, following them out the door and trying to avoid touching anyone with cutting moves and quick footwork.

What did I learn at the end of the night? What was the purpose of my attending to such a dark and smoky bar? I have no answers. I talk little on the drive back to campus. My friends relate their adventures, and I realize one of them didn’t make the trip. I ask, and they tell me he was busy and told us to not wait for him. He had a prospect that lived near the bar, and he would take a cab if things didn’t work out. They say they’re going to finish the night at a party in the dorm, but I decline and walk through the cold night back to my room, a little zig-zaggy as the drinks affected me more than I supposed. I’m alone when I enter the dormitory. The halls are quiet and empty, and I hear music playing in some rooms, sometimes jazz, but mostly soulful music and the squeaking beds, which find a rhythm of their own. I regret my loneliness, but know that it’s making me a darker, more mysterious person.