Impulse

How Many Drinks?

Nope, that's not what I'm going for.

"Alex Dunbar, and you are?" a fair hand reaches across the bar,  the other holds a glass of  wine as the owner smiles at me serenely.

My heart thumps, but that's not very hard to do considering my personality and current situation. I feel a shy smile pulling at my lips and immediately acquiesce it into a hard thick line.

I should be nice, but these parties are never free of guys looking for a quick feel. Not that I've had too many issues with that...mostly with them trying to figure out if I actually belong there.

 This one is working the bar and drinking, I wonder what his boss thinks of that?

He's cute though. Actually, he's pretty hot...nope, he's very hot.

 It's obvious he has the best of both worlds: enough African ancestry in him to create full lips and enough European ancestry to give him the palest color in the room.

 I zone in on his cropped hair; I wonder what it would look like if it were longer. Hair doesn't lie.

His smile wavers, and his hand balls into a loose fist, and I feel a pang for what I'm about to do. Ihate to run away right now when I don't want to because it's seldom that I get cute guys like him to actually approach me. Most watch me from afar.

I uncross my legs and set my glass of wine on the bar table with an apologetic smile and look into his pretty grey-brown eyes. He looks like trouble.He looks like another heartbreak. 

I continue to disregard his hand and slide off the stool, " Just leaving." 

I gather my clutch bag and walk away as fast as I can given the size of my heels and my inability to adequately walk in those heels.

But I always have the bad habit of drinking too much when I crash these things, so my walking is a little off as I saunter away. I make it outside, wobbling and nearly teetering to the left and right with only the wall and the pillars to aid me. I gather enough sobriety to make it to the curb without falling when I hear light steps behind me, "Hey, do you need a ride home?"

Should I lie about my chauffeur being late? Is there a point now that I'm out of the house?

I can't walk home.  There's no telling what will happen to me while i'm in this dress. Here at this party I could be considered classy, high fashion, but on the streets in my neighborhood I'll be flagged as a prostitute. I look the part.

I should be ashamed. But I'm not.

"No thanks."

But the stranger with the grey eyes doesn't know what 'no' means, "I insist. Look...I hate to be frank like this with someone I don't know, but you're drunk off your ass. And look, you're freezing. "

And I am. I already have my arms wrapped around my waist with my clutch bag pressed against my pelvis. But there's fire in me yet, "I am not drunk off my ass "

"Lady," he laughs as he takes off his tan coat and takes it upon him to get close enough for me to smell his aftershave and his cologne as he drapes it over my shoulders, "you're cold. Admit it."

My eyelids flutter. My lips part. Both completely involuntary reactions to him being too close. I know I want to say no, but...

"Fine."

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I avoid giving him my address. He can't know where I live.

"Where do I take you?"

His car is nice. He's not a bar tender. He's a son of someone wealthy. He knows what it's like not to struggle everyday.