The horrible truth is that watching her go he mostly felt an odd kind of relief. He had had an Interaction, and she had Enjoyed it, and then she had Desired More Company, and all of that felt strange and pleasant and more than being aware of blowing it he felt pleased that he'd been in a situation where blowing it was an option. So in the end he didn't stop her, finishing his cigarette and turning back towards the now-cold chicken he'd mostly ignore.
As he was walking back later, loosened up under the influence of a decent but not overpowering buzz, he considered calmly that that would be the end of it: he'd find some other bar to hang out at, and just continue to duck her at the garage as best as he was able (Tim being an obliging helper in this regard although a little too glib with his
how the hell did you manage to land that one, kid).
But later still, when he crawled up off the floor where he was reading (an old habit, unbroken) and into the bed, he curled around his phone under the blankets and considered the situation. It wouldn't have been strictly accurate to say that the past year and a half had been lonely--there had been people, mostly fleeting people, rides in cars with tactful couples who rolled down the windows and pretended it was to enjoy the weather and not to escape the smell he carted around constantly. But it had been something like lonely--something way out on the other side where he'd long since stopped wagging his tail for strangers who never put out a hand.
A couple days before he'd done that thing--where you hurt yourself and don't realize you have and go about your life ignorant until you realize blood's trickling down the back of your hand, and you trace it back up and you find the cut on your elbow and then, suddenly, it stings. It stung now, a timely reminder, and it was this he was thinking about when he pulled up his texts, and closed them, and opened them again, and wondered how long he'd forgotten.
It was almost two AM, and maybe it'd be more unwelcome than welcome, but he tried anyway.
The chicken was good even if you meant it as an insult, thank you. I assume you didn't spit in it but all things considered I guess it was irrelevant if you did.
I won't go to the bar any more. I didn't know you worked there and had no intention of disrupting your work day. And then, later--an hour, two; he'd lost track of time drifting into and out of his fickle sleep--another:
Sorry.
