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“So.” Shirley says to him, three beers in. “Do you wanna?”
Lech, his eyes still watching the door to ensure their target isn’t planning to reenter the bar and yell at them some more, says: “Sorry?”
Admittedly, he’s gotten pretty good over the last few hours at tuning her out. Though, that inattention goes out the window when she leans forwards impatiently to clarify: “Fuck. Do you wanna fuck. Jesus, where’s your head at?”
He nearly chokes on his own spit. “What the fuck?”
She doesn’t look impressed. “Don’t need to act so disgusted. I know you were thinking of it.”
Lech doesn’t dignify that with a reply. Though whatever expression he makes must not look upset enough, because she simply continues: “I mean, look, you’re no big catch.”
“Thanks.” Lech says curtly, unable to help himself.
“But you’re here, and you keep going along with whatever bullshit I’ve been proposing, so…” She shrugs. “Anyway, your girlfriend left, right? And your face looks like somebody tried to take your eyes out but just kept missing--”
“Is this supposed to be convincing?”
“So, I doubt you’re drowning in offers.” She finishes. She takes another sip of beer for emphasis.
He looks around the bar again to see if anyone else has heard this and gotten mad on his behalf. But everyone’s minding their own business-- probably assuming they’re just another pair of friends, or coworkers, or even lovers having a night on the town. Currently, none of these titles seem fitting.
“I think I hate you.” Lech decides.
“That’s not a no.” She points out. There is a horrible, smug little smile on her face now.
He thinks about it a moment more. Weighing his options.
“It’s not.” He allows, finally.
And well, it isn’t. God help him.