When I got home from class, Brent was sitting on his bed, looking depressed.
Big surprise.
He looked up as I opened the door, his expression going from suicidal to despondent. “How was class?” he asked, sounding as tragic as possible.
I rolled my eyes, tossing my coat over my chair. “Fine, I guess. The TA let us out fifteen minutes early. Had a big date, apparently.”
“He would,” Brent muttered, sounding even more bitter than usual.
“Yeah, well, I’m not begrudging him it.”
“I guess you’re right. I shouldn’t hold it against him.” Brent tried to sound penitent, but only succeeded in sounding pathetic. “Don’t you have a date tonight?” His best attempt at making conversation.
I laughed out loud. “Candace told me, more or less, to fuck off and die, last time I called.”
“Oh.” This time, Brent didn’t sound pathetic, just mollified. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” I shrugged, throwing my notebook on my desk. “She was a pretty boring date.”
“Oh,” Brent said again, this time with something along the lines of icy-jealousy. “It must be nice to be able to be so picky.”
That was about all I could take. I turned around, sat down on my bed, and looked at him from across the room. He was avoiding my gaze, just looking at his thumbs. “All right,” I said, not in the mood to spend the entire night hearing how sorry he felt for himself. “What’s the problem?”
Brent looked up at me and gave me an amused, but hollow, grin. “Do you know what today is?”
I thought about it. “Thursday?”
“No.” He almost sounded disgusted. “Why would I expect everybody to be dating?”
I thought about if for a second, then it dawned on me. “Oh….” I realized. “It’s the 14th. Valentine’s Day.”
“Right,” Brent said. He chuckled. “If you hadn’t broken up with Candace already, then she’d be breaking up with you now.”
“Hmm…” That might change how I spent my evening. I considered the possibilities; I had a paper to write, not a long one, just eight pages and some homework to do if I wanted to stay ahead in French. And reading, of course, there always seemed to be more to read. So I could get work done, or pretend to try to get my work done, all the while listening to Brent want to kill himself. Or…. Screw it, I thought, it’s not like I was going to do anything useful anyway. “Get your shoes on,” I said, standing up and donning my coat. “We’re going out.”
Brent frowned at me. “A date with you wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
“Yeah, well you need to get out of here. You’re starting to make me feel depressed.” He didn’t move. I looked at him. “I’m going to a bar,” I told him, giving him no room to argue, “and you’re coming with me.”
“Why? So I can go look at all the happy couples?” Despite his protests, he was putting on his shoes. “I’m sure that’s going to make me feel better.”
“Think about it; would couples really be going to bars on Valentine’s Day?”
“Well, I suppose not,” Brent admitted. “So why…”
I rolled my eyes again. “Because you know who is going to bars tonight?” I asked. Brent didn’t answer, just looked at me mutely confused, so I continued. “All the girls who didn’t receive flowers, all the girls who didn’t even get a card. Basically, all the single girls. And they’ll be sulking over their drinks, jealous of their friends’ boyfriends, and wishing for one of their own.”
“Wait,” Brent said, finally getting my point, “because it’s Valentine’s, you think there’ll be girls at the bar, wanting to be asked out?”
“Think? I know. The single girls will be out in droves tonight, just to prove that the holiday won’t get to them.”
“When it really is getting to them.”
“Right.”
Brent looked doubtful. “So we’re going to go take advantage of Valentine’s Day depression?”
“Exactly,” I answered. “We’re going to go hit on chicks.”
When we got to the bar it was fairly empty, but still had enough of a crowd that we had to use our elbows to get to the counter. We found a couple of stools and sat down. Brent took a good look around as I ordered two beers. “You’re right,” he whispered once the bar-tender had left.
I grinned at him. “Of course I’m right.” I didn’t bother to whisper. The bar was almost three-fourths women, gathered in groups of friends or idly talking with people they had just met. Oh, there were a few couples taking up tables; I guess they decided that simple was good for V-Day. But for the most part, anybody with an S.O. had decided to go off and do some romantic bullshit, like sit in the park and let their clasped hands freeze together.
I glanced around, checking out the possibilities. There were a few girls alone, mulling over their drinks, but I didn’t really want to engage just one; I doubted Brent would enjoy sitting there, watching me flirt. There were a few larger groups, but there weren’t enough seats for both of us, so I canceled that idea. Then I noticed there were two women near the far end of the bar-counter, and that they were already eyeing us. A pair of brunettes, dressed a little less casually than most of the others in the bar. One of them leaned down to whisper into her friend’s ear. The receiver of the joke gave a nice smile as she laughed.
Well, hell, I thought. I didn’t think they’d give me the conversation starter.
When the bar-tender brought our beers, I paid for them, handed one to Brent, and led him over to the girls. The one that had been laughing covered her mouth and tried to look polite as I approached.
“I saw you noticing me,” I said, giving them an arrogant smile. “Is there something I can help you with?”
The first, the one who had pointed, flushed a little but shook her head. “No, we were just wondering why you’re wearing sunglasses.”
I reached up and adjusted the thin frames. “My glasses broke, so I’m kind of stuck with these,” I explained. I didn’t bother to admit that I hadn’t made an effort to get the broken pair replaced in nearly two years.
“Oh,” the second said, sounding a little apologetic.
I shrugged to show that there were no hard feelings. “I get that question a lot. It makes sense.”
“I suppose it does,” the second said again.
She went silent, so I did something about it. “If you’re feeling guilty,” I joked, “you could let us sit with you.”
The second looked at me in surprise and then the first blurted out, “You’re not gay?”
I looked at her in shock. “You thought we were gay?”
The second shrugged. “Two guys walk into a bar together on Valentine’s Day, they go straight to the bar together, don’t meet any of their friends. And your friend looks kind of artsy…”
I gave a sheepish grin and nodded. “Yeah, I see your point. Nah, we’re just trying not to sit at home and feel dumb for being single.”
“Oh,” the second agreed, “that makes sense.”
It only took about ten seconds for me to get sick of the awkward silence. I introduced myself and Brent, and they introduced themselves back. They made room at their table, and I bought them both drinks. We found out that we were all going to the same college, and we ended up trading stories about classes, famous professors, and exams. When we finished our drinks, they bought the next round and we wasted another half-hour making bad jokes and laughing. Not too long after, though, they politely extracted themselves, preparing to leave since they had to be somewhere, and giving us a genuinely fond farewell.
As they were standing up, I couldn’t help but make a move, since the timing seemed almost perfect. “Any chance I could give you a call sometime.”
The two girls exchanged a look. “We’re sorry…” the first began.
“Oh,” I said. I could hear the rejection before it came. They must have had boy-friends, or didn’t want a relationship, or some other bullshit.
“You’re great guys,” the second said, “but we don’t go for your type. You know… male.” She trailed off.
“Oh,” I said, feeling a little stunned.
“Anyway, it was nice to meet you,” the first said. Then they turned, arm in arm, and walked out.
“Single girls, huh.” Brent said beside me.
“Oh, shut up.” I answered, then went to the bar to order another drink.
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