text: I was jerked from my thoughts as a rocks glass slid into view with ice jostling in a double-shot of bourbon, sloshing dangerously close to the rim... Had the damn bartender spilled a drop of my Maker’s Mark, I would have demanded a complementary shot, which he wouldn’t deny me once I batted my eyelashes. I would have given him a piece of my mind if he refused, and he would have to continue to serve me with a smile. Under that dim light, I surveyed the bar as my eyes were drawn to the distressed wooden door, which was ushering in a circle of girlfriends, strutting in their high heels. There were five flaunting women, all laughing obnoxiously as if they had already had a few rounds of drinks. They were dressed in an array of colors, patterns, and styles, yet a sense of uniformity hung among them. Different hair-do’s, lipstick, and accessories were on parade; yet, as a checkered black and white pattern dims to grey with distance, so did this display of womanhood blend to a dull gray. Maybe I was just seeking some interior moral high ground--criticizing in order to deny the envy that choked in my throat at the sight of females enjoying each other’s company as I sat alone. Before I could further investigate my motives, I realized I had inadvertently stared a little too long, or perhaps too intensely, because the redhead glanced my way while the hostess attended to her brood. As our eyes met, my eyes burned with embers of embarrassment as if she had heard my unflattering thoughts. Grimacing, I looked to the left, pretending I was never examining the women in the first place. My eyes unwittingly took hold of a clean-shaven, well-dressed young man alone at the bar, about five empty stools down from my lonely ass. My seat may as well have been empty. It took a moment for me to realize we were indeed making eye contact, but my mind still lingering on the redhead. I then hurried into full retreat and looked ahead at the TV, only to realize I would have to feign interest in Nascar... This is just great, what woman watches Nascar at a bar on a weekday? After a moment, I realized the man at the bar had already been gazing at me when I caught his eye. Was he watching me the whole time I was analyzing those women? I shifted in my seat uncomfortably and my hand slid into the wet trail my glass had blazed . . . Oh right, my drink. I haven’t even touched it, and it’s already dripping with condensation. My bourbon is probably all watered down now. I wonder if it would be a bother to ask for a new one . . . No, I can’t. Too embarrassing. I’ll just have to remember to ask for it neat next time. I always forget that’s how I like it . . . Why did I even bother coming here for a drink in the first place, when it’s so much cheaper to buy the bottle next door? After all, Mom always taught me the virtue of “buying in bulk,” but I guess she wouldn’t look kindly on my hoarding of vices. I suppose I know the reason I find myself here instead... that bottle of bourbon wouldn’t last the night. This is my way of attempting to temper the never-satiated thirst of the bottle-burdened breast. I finally take my first sip, wondering at how the chilled bourbon’s warmth floods my chest like flames in an empty furnace. With my heart momentarily warmed, I keep at bay the loneliness that always crowds my mind in these crowded places. As a second wave of bourbon washes over my parched tongue, I notice out of the corner of my eye that the redhead was walking into the ladies room. Perhaps it’s the bourbon playing with my imagination, but I swear I sensed something ineffable in that fleeting gaze we shared earlier. I don’t know what, but her eyes betrayed some lingering pain that lie beneath her glamorous attire. I can’t put my finger on it, but I feel a sort of deja vu. At first, I rationalize thinking I am only desperate to make some real connection with another human being, tiring from the males smothering me with the sexual glint in their eyes. Then, it occurs to me: amidst her carefully crafted outfit, there was one element she forgot to coordinate with the rest of her ensemble--her emerald eyes. Hers were the gems that stood out in that sea of gray. I gulp the rest of my bourbon and quickly make my way to the bathroom, hoping I might somehow piece together this perplexing puzzle. Playing detective on a reconnaissance mission is far less frightening an undertaking than actually confronting another adult female in an attempt to befriend her. Walking to the restroom, I am praying it is furnished with stalls so I have a chance at interaction, or at least eaves-dropping. I pause just before entering. Noticing it was unlocked, I slowly begin pushing the door open until doubt wells up in my gut... This is so obvious! No one enters a bathroom creeping like this! So, I change course and hurriedly trot through to a stall. No one else is in the bathroom, but one stall is occupied. It doesn’t take master detective skills to figure out it’s the redhead. I sit on the pot and hope to get a few tinkles out to really sell my story, all the while using my brainwaves to communicate to the redhead... come on redhead, what’s your story? Give me something here... I just want something to make this night worthwhile, some real-life intrigue. It doesn’t take long for me to realize how ridiculously I am acting. I figure I manufactured everything within my imagination. Then, I hear it... sniffles... She is crying! I gleefully applaud my own intuition. However, my glee quickly fades into sympathy. Now I feel really idiotic. I am making this poor woman’s inexplicable sadness a part of my little game. Guilt ensues, emptying any warmth garnered by the bourbon and the intrigue. I leave the stall and wash my hands, debating whether I should leave her alone or try and offer a shoulder. She doesn’t need my sympathy. After all, she is here with her exuberant friend group. Then again, how good of friends could they be if they don’t realize she’s in here bawling her eyes out. Well, if I were crying in a stall, I would definitely want to be left alone. It’s far too embarrassing to be found out. Although, there was that one time in that empty church when I let loose my wailful, ugly tears. The elderly woman who discovered me there just hugged me without saying a word. It was powerful. I even considered for a moment that she may have been an angel. This is different though... she was an old lady, and that was a church. This is a bar. . . in a bathroom, and... well... me. Plus, I’m just not a “go-hug-a-stranger” type of gal. Although, maybe I could be . . . right now, this moment could be a new beginning for me. I can cast off this heavy cloak of social anxiety and throw open my arms to the true Christian Charity I’ve always longed to be capable of! What if all Redhead needs is some demonstration of Christ’s love to lift her up? What if she doesn't know Christ? What if God put me in this very bathroom at this very moment with this very woman for some cosmic purpose in His grand scheme?! I finish washing my hands, and Redhead seems to be waiting for me to leave so she can exit the stall, having gained her composure. I begin to worry whether I am now being an asshole because of my selfish desire to make some grandiose, self-aggrandizing, charitable gesture. At this point, I am pretty much holding her hostage in a bathroom stall. I figure I’ll give it just one more minute and powder my nose while I consider my next move. First, I picture myself hugging her like the old woman did me, not saying a word, only speaking if spoken to. That seems a bit much for a bathroom encounter, so I ponder gently placing my hand on the small of her back and asking if she needs anything. I know human touch is powerful. Jesus worked a miracle just by a woman pushing through a crowd to touch His cloak! God could surely work through a small gesture on my part. Still, this is far outside my comfort zone. My brain waves once again begin to plead with Redhead... Come on, let’s not end this night in a stalemate. Don’t you realize, God placed me here because of you! I wasn’t even going to come out tonight, but then my ex felt like reminding me again of why we are no longer together. What are you hiding? Her heels sharply click on the tile floor as she exits the stall with her head down, seemingly unaware of my existence as I stare with anticipation at her reflection. She looks up when she reaches the counter, and she begins touching up her eye makeup to hide that she had been crying. She doesn’t even look over at me, but I can’t have this night end like this. Not again. Every other time I’d been faced with some kind of ordained moment from above to make a connection with another woman, I cowered in fear and let the moment pass me by. Not this time, no, my begging hand reaches over and finds the small of her back, and I look at her as if she were the one who needs reassurance. She smiles, and at last she casts her eyes in my direction. I am lured into her enchanting, tear-stained eyes, whose color is as deep as the evergreen forests I played in as a child. Was that the deja vu I felt? I search that deep wood for what seems like an eternity as their branches wrap around me to share their secrets. Then, I realize it wasn’t branches pulling me in, but her milky hands, which she has tenderly placed on my face. I find myself racing into that dark wood as she brings her plum lips and presses against mine with strange vigor. I don’t understand, but for once, I don’t feel I have to. I do more than accept her lips’ embrace as I respond with equal vigor. I am shaken from my imagination’s grip when I hear a cough and a sniffle from the stall. She has a cold, and I suppose that’s how my story ends for tonight, unrealized promise.