(A piece of fiction written for my English 101 class)

The last time I saw my dignity was about three drinks ago. I think it left with my coordination because I saw a yellow cab from the curb and then head north to the express way. Maybe that's what I should be doing. It's not like I blame them. I mean three Tanqueray and tonics and a few cheesy pick-up lines would make just about anyone wrap it up and call it a night, especially considering the bad outcomes. I think the breaking point was when I spilt Barbara's Cosmo all over her chest, staining her white blouse, when I bumped into her.  She was pretty, blond, about five foot six, a perky C-cup and a slight overbite and seemingly detached from the two friends she came with.

She came to The Aqua, like we all did; dressed to impress and out for a good time. In the back of her mind, she thought that she might just get lucky. Not get laid, though she might come to that, but lucky in the sense that she could find a half-way decent guy who could hold a conversation and maybe, possibly, incredibly, keep around for a long term relationship, take home to her mom and dad in Idaho Falls, get-married-have-kids-and-grow-old-on-the-front-porch with.  Right after she reflected on that thought, pushed it to the back of her mind and paid the bartender for her drink, she turned to return to Sarah and Kate in their booth, scoffing at her nostalgia. As the cold vodka seeped into the fabric and images of Oceanspray cranberries came to mind, she thought to herself "Great, just great!"

As my face matched her blouse's rapidly blossoming color, I stammered "I'm-m so, so sorry…" gesturing helplessly in front of my own chest. I reached out towards her; only to stop a few inches from her as my alcohol slowed brain realized I was reaching towards a very personal area of her body. I pulled back a few inches, but then in desperate attempt to do something, anything to try and help, reached out again. After several iterations of realization of personal space and desperation to help, my hands slumped my sides and I let out a defeated sigh. "Is there anything I can do at this point to seem like a drunken idiot? I mean, not seem like a drunken idiot" my buzzed brain finally manages to put together and somehow muttered. The sense of defeat in the moment and the night in general crystallized as the bartender offered a bar towel to clean up the remaining dribbles and drops from our bodies, a slight chuckle under his breath.

The rest of the club continues to move, converse, dance, cavort in its usual rhythm and chaos as we stand there staring at each other like two ocean piers in the middle of spring storm. "You can start by buying me another drink," she utters after what seems like forever, breaking the thunderous silence. "Oh. Yeah. Sure, I'll pay to have that cleaned too…  if you want." She stares back rather incredulous but a slightly amused smile at my attempts to dig myself out of my half-Chinese hole emerges as some of the stress and emotion slides from her shoulders and she inhales. "Yeah… sure… thanks."

A word to the bartender and another round in hand, I pass her martini glass to her, offering my hand to her, "I'm Ryan by the way…"