Though you're across the packed, smoke-filled room and you're surrounded by testosterone-fueled boys, I bet you smell good, like a cloud lightly misted with raspberry.
I pretend not to look at you all night as I sit at the bar and get progressively more drunk. I pass by your table on my way to the bathroom and despite the boys sitting next to you, I can catch the subtlest wisp of you, so small, yet it circles my head and makes me swoon. I go into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, half-heartedly trying to regain my composure.
Shortly after I return to my barstool, I find your scent lingering dangerously close to me. I look to my left and take in your entire being with all six of my senses; you're standing mere centimetres away, talking to the bartender. Feeling like a wild animal, and wishing I could crawl head-first into my bottle of beer, I slouch a bit and inhale deeply. I've never experienced anything like you before, even though we've never so much as made eye contact. Judging by the throng of boys at your table, you're probably straight, too. But nevertheless, you've shattered my world for this one night, this Limited Time Engagement.
Sunday Sunday Sunday.
You get a fresh drink and a new pack of cigarettes from the bartender, and as you pivot leftwards, your waist-length hair slides smoothly over my arm for a second. I want to press my face into it, but you just keep on walking back to your table, back to the boys that are all locked in spirited competition to see which can impress you the most and take you home with him.
Like most of the people I see in day-to-day public life, I'll probably never see you again after tonight, so I order a shot of Cuervo tequila and a shot of Absolut Cimmeron, both of which I down in rapid succession. I compose myself briefly, check my hair in my compact's mirror, and stand up. I walk over to your table, and circle round it. I tap you on the shoulder and whisper into your ear, "you smell heart-breakingly good." Then I exit the bar, leaving you to whatever tonight brings (and probably with the thought, Did I just get hit on by a girl?), and leaving me to my sullen dreams of unrequited love.