So, I met a really adorable bartender on Saturday night. Which, yes, is a cliché. But the boy is hot. And I was actually in my rare sassy/flirty mood and worked up the courage to chat a bit during every drink order/exchange and wound up on the receiving end of a few free Red Stripes and flirty glances, and thought, what the hell? So as I was closing my tab, I joked with him that I was tempted to write my number on my bill. And he laughed in a, that’s-been-done-many-times-but-it wouldn’t-be-entirely-unwelcome kind of way. If its possible to get that much from a laugh. So I did something I rarely do: I asked for his number. Because why the fuck not? And he paused for a moment to consider, then grinned this gorgeous, sincere, huge grin, and gave it to me. On the sly like. Score for me.
So, here’s the rub. It’s now Tuesday. Which is super coy 3-day-waiting-period territory. But I didn’t wait this long out of coolness. I am chicken-shit. What the fuck do I say when I call him? I know nothing about him. Except he wears a silly golfer cap that looks adorable on him. Has tattoos of dice on his forearm (I know, but seriously, its working for him), and he makes a MEAN manhattan. I mean, this man knows his way around a bottle of whiskey. I could use someone like him on my team. Oh, to not be chicken-shit.
Would it be bad to start downing shots of Jameson at 5pm to get the courage to call him?
Yes. Very. Bad.
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