HUNTER

1

The bar was bustling with life. For a Wednesday night this surprised me. Normally the place would be dead with only the local old timers who crawl out of their caves to bask in the warm glow of the neon light sign behind the bar on the wall which reads: Harold's. Harold himself was busy pulling a real ale from the wooden handled pump. He was surrounded by a gang of women who were waving their money at the poor man hoping to be his next customer, while their husbands sat watching from afar like bored house cats.
Taking a sip of my whiskey to hide my amusement I move my attention to the two burly men throwing darts at a mangled dart board in the corner. The thing looked ancient, and it had more holes than a golf course, and bits of cork were missing from the edges. Harold's was rustic but lovable. Its small, homely feel seemed to be what made it so popular, with its vintage furniture and stench of sweaty men and alcohol.
Empty glass in hand I pop it on the end of the bar, "thanks Harold." I say, picking up my jacket, exchanging nods, and turning to leave.
Only to stop in my tracks as he entered.
A man. Tall, with short dark hair and wearing a dark suit with a red tie. It must have been raining out because when he ran his hands through his hair and shook it, water droplets speckled his shoulders. Too stunned to talk I turn back to Harold and give him a wave. Nodding, he quickly refilled my glass then returned to the horde of women who had begun to complain due to my special treatment.
Taking a sip I attempt to play it cool. The probability of him actually talking to me was slim, however I was optimistic. I had a great job, a small but nice flat in the city and a car which I had, almost, paid off. My Mam had always told me that I was a keeper. Mind you, as yet, no one had tried to keep me. Relationship after relationship had fumbled into an abyss of cheating, bad break ups and pathetic, and greedy, sexual partners. Resulting in me being single for the last three years. Mam loved to call and remind me I wasn't getting any younger:
"You're thirty-three, Angie. I want grandkids." She said when she called after the last break up from my ex-boyfriend Paul. "Before you get old and I die."
"I don't need this right now, Mama."
"You do!" She cried. "I want to cuddle my little bears while I still have the use of my hands!"
"This is ridiculous!"
"I was eighteen when I met your Papa, and we made babies as soon as possible."
"I'm not you though, Mama. I'm happy as I am."
"Your brother's have children and wives, your sisters have husbands and children, and your cousins have started settling down!"
"Whoop, good for them." I whisper to myself.
"Sarcasm is not comical Angelica, it's rude. You were brought up to know better."
Mama was Italian and my Papa English. They met while Papa was on holiday in Rome with his first wife. Apparently it wasn't long until he found himself divorced, remarried and a father to be. That's the short version. The longer version occurs after a few too many glasses of sherry at Christmas, which he describes as the most exhausting period of his life. In total they'd made seven babies: my four brothers and my two sisters. And then there's me - the youngest. The Disappointment. The Failed Artist. The Spinster. The Childless One.

"Good Evening." A smooth, deep voice pulled me from my moment of personal despair. I looked up from my drink and connected with a pair of bright hazel eyes. "I'm Hunter."