i wish i was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair

I will. And his smirk grew wider. He was making a joke – one in poor taste, but she hadn’t thought so, noticing the way her eyes traced over his features. She was avoiding looking directly at his mouth, but studied around it, making him more amused. He felt like he had the upper hand; he was more sober, more controlled, focusing his energy on the game instead of the girl, but she’d surprised him. He hadn’t expected a forward response, or anything more than a giggle, something to indicate that she heard and was embarrassed by the truth, but she’d given in. The boost to his ego made it feel like he could win this thing, the male a little too competitive for a match with low stakes. But if he’d paid the extra $7.50 to get here, he might as well make it worth it. “Dr. Phil’s been on the air longer,” he countered, ignoring the thought of her in a wet t-shirt. He should’ve taken a drink to the table, needing something to focus on when the conversation shifted. 

He was acutely aware of her purposeful behavior – the chalk, the hip, the arch of her spine, but he focused instead on the shot and predicting where the colored balls would move. “Four and a half – and could you even reach?” It was his turn and he mimicked her actions, exaggerating her behavior to elicit a laugh before straightening his poster and taking his turn. He was able to knock one in, his smile turning triumphant as he turned towards her,  raising his palms in a shrug. “You sure you don’t need someone to show you how it’s done?”

His first mistake: misinformation. “Hah! You’re wrong. Maury’s been on since the 90s, pal. A lot longer than Phil.” That was a win in and of itself. “And Maury’s more iconic. You’re the one that started this, remember? ‘You are not the father.’” Peter had set himself up to fail. Or, maybe Fliss was: pool probably wasn’t the best idea this far into the night. Not a serious match, anyway. And this was about winning. Schooling his ass. Alcohol gave her confidence here, not a clear win. But even if she couldn’t score at pool, she’d try scoring elsewhere. Keep at it, see how far they could go. How far Peter would go before he’d crack. Two birds (games), one stone. 

Just ‘cause this was a competition, of sorts, doesn’t mean she couldn’t laugh, right? Felicity wasn’t one for holding back. When Peter started playing around, Fliss giggled, cue close to her mouth to hide a smile. “Don’t make me come up there.” She leaned off the pool table, close to his body. So tall that she had to completely crane her neck to look up at him. Saw the slight stubble that covered his chin. How bright and pink his lips were, even in the low-light of the wine bar. Felicity lingered as he took his shot. He sunk a ball, and the victory was evident in his stance and dimpled smile. “Please, I set that up for you.” He got an extra turn for knocking one in the hole. Fliss used this to her advantage. “Mhm, you don’t mind using your turn to help out lil’ ol’ me?” Tilted her jaw to motion him over. Leaned down, the cue sliding in between her fingers. “Show me.” Beckoned him over to adjust her position, to show her how it was done.

His brows tugged together at the violent imagery, an amused smile gracing his lips as he wondered if she realized what she’d said and how little sense it’d made. “I’m sure that sounded more convincing in your head, but keep thinking about my mouth,” he offered, watching her reaction before reaching for the glass, tossing it back with ease. They were flirting, evident in their mannerisms, the daddy jokes and finger to his chest, him driving here in the middle of the night and inappropriate comments. The purposely exposed skin or attempts to draw his attention to her chest. She was trying to distract him, it seemed, but he wouldn’t fall for it. “I don’t know, I think I’d get a couple thirst votes,” he argued, keeping his eyes leveled with hers, only turning away when she addressed the bartender. A ‘ thank you’ slipped his lips as he took the second shot, touching his glass to hers before downing his share of tequila. “You sure you know how to play, Jones?” he questioned, not even glancing towards her cleavage before turning on his heel towards the tables. “It’s pretty complicated.” His tone was teasing, reflective of the jabs they’d made through their texts. They found an empty table, Peter taking initiative to rack up the balls. He offered her a cue, saying “ladies first” in a joking manner.

Keep thinking about my mouth. And it was like the text message all over again, the way it hit her. Surprised her. Had her squirming, just a little, in her seat. Her eyes flitted across his face. She tried avoiding the dip of his mouth. Were those dimples? Like thumbprints in his cheeks. It seemed cocky, the way he knew that he’d coax a reaction out of her. The way his throat bobbed when he tossed back his shot of tequila. “I will,” was all she said in reply. Sometimes saying nothing said a lot, but such things weren’t possible for her after a few glasses of red. Peter was talking about thirst votes, and Fliss hated to admit it, but, he was right. “Not as many votes as me. Maury wins over the good doctor every time.” Fliss was back to talking in memes, ‘cause this, she knew, would have to get a reaction out of him. The torso, the cleavage---none of that seemed to work. And maybe he had a slight advantage: they’d already well-established she was wine-drunk. She only hoped that the two tequila shots evened out the playing field.

Felicity followed him to a free pool table. He took the lead, and handed her a cue. She grabbed a chalk cube off the wall and slowly rubbed the tip. Leaned her hip against the table. “Don’t give me that chauvinist crap. Just ‘cause I’m a girl, and you’re like four-storeys taller than me, doesn’t mean I can’t take you.” Fliss leaned to line up a shot, her lower back curving. She didn’t sink a ball on her first try, but she broke the rack, and that was something to smile about. 

                         philippa was enjoying the moment to relax a little and went to a bar. requesting a soda for herself to the bartender when a familiar voice, was rambling about something, and she turned her head to see fliss. perks of being a reporter, you already know the news. well, part of them. ❛     everybody was so talking about him today in the office. i feel like i’m gonna strangle someone’s else neck if they keep talking about him. sorry.       ❜   it’s not that she hates him, she just exhausted with the same, phrase repeating over again, and again with no end.

“No rest for the wicked?” Fliss leaned back against the bar stool, locking her phone and sliding it onto the countertop. “I mean, you are a reporter. This is huge. That man did so much. He deserves to be talked about. And respected. And mourned.” Felicity was normally carefree and laid back, but when it came to things like this? She felt as if she had a right to speak her peace. The alcohol might’ve been playing into it. Might’ve been making her a little moody. In light of current events, it made sense. She wasn’t one to look too deep into it, anyway. “What else is news, then?” Didn’t want to start up a confrontation with Philippa. She sipped on her water, the condensation from the glass wetting her palm.

Lucas quirked a brow before downing the rest of his bourbon in one gulp. It didn’t surprise him that she was barely legal. “Lucas,” He gave a nod before asking the bartender that she called over for a few more shots. It wasn’t long before they had tequila in front of them, he grabbed two shots, one for him and one he handed to Fliss. “Here’s to tonight.” He clinked the glasses together and tossed back the shot, the liquid burning his throat.

Barely legal, but never broke: if she’d learned one thing over the last year and a half of legal drinking and bar-going, it was that free drinks were easy to come by. His name was Lucas, and he ordered them a pair of shots. Tequila. He toasted before knocking back his drink. Felicity followed with “to meeting new people!” She puckered up her lips. Needed the lemon to chase it down. Some salt, maybe. Wondered why they didn’t get the full tequila treatment. “Cheers hasn’t ruined your bar experience here in Boston?” Fliss used the back of her palm to wipe the taste from her mouth. “Thank you for the drink, by the way.”

Jamie cursed himself. There was something recognizable about the back of one stranger’s head in particular, but chose to ignore it. How could he look past that hair? “Hi Fliss,” he replied in a monotone voice, as her hands slipped between his arms and around his waist. “The band is playing tonight, just on my break.” Just my luck, he thought. 

With the noise of Boston nightlife bouncing off the walls outside, it was easy to ignore her ex’s tone of voice. Felicity oughta be used to it by now. “I knew I picked the right place.” Jamie was extremely talented. It was one of the things they’d initially bonded over---music. It was universal. A lot like love---even if the four months they’d spent together romantically never blossomed into such a thing. “Mind if I be your groupie for the night?” No more bar hopping. Not tonight. 

She wasn’t middle aged or a man – the usual tell-tale signs of a catfish – and they hadn’t exchanged any personal information; he only knew her name, a rather arbitrary detail. They were in public, but she did have his phone number, one that could be traced and linked to other details if she cared enough to check, but rarely was that done anymore. What he did know was that she’d made him laugh and crack a smile, rolling his eyes as he clicked through different memes in the back of an Uber, and that it was enough to bring him here. He wasn’t much of a wine guy or into redheads typically, but he was amused. “Floss, was it?” Peter questioned teasingly, still towering above her, unmoving when she stood. “You’re hyped up on all sorts of liquid courage right now, but you’ll sober up soon and it’ll make winning that much sweeter.” At the suggestion, he called for the bartender, signaling with two fingers for a pair of shots. “How’re we settling this – pool, darts, wet t shirt contest?” he questioned as the drinks were placed before them, pushing one towards her.

“That’s Fairy Floss to you, mister.” Her nail polish was black, chipped, as she pushed hard against his chest with a finger. Craved cotton candy—couldn’t remember the last time she’d had some, or been to a carnival or a circus; where those types of sweets were staples. They were settings for normal dates. Was this a date? Felicity didn’t care. She wanted the company, not the label. “You’re gonna be flossing a lot, actually. Y’know, after I kick your ass. Get your mouth bleeding. Knock out some teeth.” Fliss played along with the charade, her threats empty and teasing.

She arched an eyebrow. “Who said anything about sobering up?” Peter slid a shot of tequila her way. “...All of the above?” Fliss suggested, before her head was tipped back to down her drink. Slammed it down on the bar top when she was done. “I think we both know that, without even trying, I’d win the wet t-shirt competition.” Peter might’ve wanted to stand, hover over her, but her heels were starting to cut into her ankles. He wanted to talk assets? Fliss stretched her arms in the air, like she was getting ready for a fight, and her shirt rode up. A strip of skin exposed. Her Medusa head tattoo was peeking out at the hem of her shorts. She motioned for the bartender one more time. Another set of shots. Tugged her top down to cover her stomach, and in turn revealed a hint of cleavage. “Let’s kick this back, and then I’m ruining you at pool.”

He’d have to turn the car around, that was the general consensus between the GPS and the driver’s own poor sense of direction. They would need to retrace their steps, driving passed a few familiar street signs heading towards the address the red head had given him. This was ridiculous, nothing short of a obscure headline across one of the many local news outlets. His generation had been warned against this, to stray from interacting with strangers and then offered programs and apps that would facilitate those conversations. Hell, he worked for one such company that promoted interactions like this. $1.99, a couple dozen swipes, and you could meet the love of your life - or someone willing to keep your bed warm for the night. It was garbage - the former at least, his expectations low. He just knew that she was funny, that it’d been a long week, and he could use a drink even if it was a shitty glass of wine. So he asked the driver to turn around, to alter his end point, getting off at the bar that had mentioned to him by the stranger.

It was easy to spot her, the number of redheads in the building were few and only one sat at the bar, tapping away on the wood as she sipped from her glass. Another cliche, but this whole evening had started to feel as such. He rolled his eyes before approaching her, stopping beside her stool. “You can tell all of that just with a look?” He questioned, not taking the seat beside her. “It doesn’t matter. It won’t keep you from getting your ass kicked.”

His response was the only sort of confirmation she needed. It matched in tone---the text messages to the man standing tall beside her. Tall. Very tall. Cute. Really cute. Felicity spun on her stool to face him, bare leg over her knee. He wasn’t sitting down. Fliss tilted her head. “Why do I feel like I just told you to come meet me after school to fight?” Her smile was swallowed by the edge of her wine glass, drinking until it was empty. “3pm. You and me.” Tried her best at a death stare, but she was far too amused to keep a straight face. Stood to get in his space. Yeah, he was tall. Towered over her. It didn’t shake her confidence. “Nah, you’re too soft to be a serial killer.” Felicity palmed the bar top, using it for support. “You want a drink before I lay your ass out all over the floor, doc?” They were standing too close for strangers. 

It probably wasn’t the smartest idea. Responding to a wrong number. Flirting with a stranger. Like Catfish on crack. Took internet/app dating to a whole new level, huh? Felicity was always up for trying new things. The best things were created in moments like this: a lipstick stain on the rim of her wine glass, spontaniety and Sauvignon in her veins. Meeting a man with the same name as her father. A stranger, but a possible serial killer. Uninvited by Alanis Morissette. She hummed the tune. Her friends were starting to move on. Started mingling, or dispersing. Fliss’ smile was cheeky, dimpled, as she sent out one final text message. She didn’t expect a response. 

Not one to fret, or get anxious, Felicity continued to drink. Swirled her glass. She tapped out the chords of the song on the bar top. When a man sat down on the empty bar stool beside her, she could only assume that it was Peter. “Phil McGraw?” Fliss had to bite down on her lip to keep the length of her smile small. “You’re not a serial killer.”

Peter: https://i.pinimg.com/736x/a8/4a/03/a84a0314a48cff140e55e41a07ce1e2b--fake-smile-the-other-guys.jpg

Peter: night isn't over maury

Peter: we'll see

Peter: you're a nerd

Peter: boston bred. small world

Peter: it would be a wine bar

Peter: wow, not funny and delusional, what a dime

Peter: Answers to the name of Maury, got it.

Fliss: so

Fliss: guess who got the last meme in?

Fliss: that'd be me :))))

Peter: time and place, Fliss

Peter: https://i.imgflip.com/gzlgp.jpg

Fliss: https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRSQXgHGfVYydFtcaA8CY7iJ3P3Xpi11DIjN4xNr1akDLr_gJF3

Fliss: hope you live in Boston, boy

Fliss: haley.henry wine bar. Downtown.

Fliss: I'm the one that's gonna kick your ass

Peter: says the girl who was hammered off a glass of wine

Peter: https://68.media.tumblr.com/a756c7d0de0fb582040c0d3c7a85dbca/tumblr_oknvk5NtpG1ql5yr7o1_500.gif

Fliss: why don't you come here and find out then???

Fliss: GIF GAME WEAK

Peter: wow sounds like a lot of excuses

Peter: https://i.imgflip.com/172mcc.jpg

Fliss: I could take you

Fliss: 100%

Peter: http://pixel.nymag.com/imgs/daily/vulture/2015/01/16/surejan.w529.h352.jpg

Peter: someone's bitter cause they lost

Peter: up your game maury

Fliss: I DIDN'T LOSE YOU CHEATED???

Fliss: must be a Peter thing