It can only go up from here...

Today started earlier than expected, as I beat my alarm clock...by more than an hour.

5:25 am is not a good time to start the work week.

I really was going to get the saga of Of Mirth and Matter's (sic) really big show done, and maybe even elaborate on why the NSA phone records piss me off, but frankly it's a minor medical miracle that I'm even awake at the moment.

Why am I still awake?

Simple answer: I refuse to go to bed before 10 (this used to be 11, but I'm not sure I can make that tonight). I may be older, but I'm not going to allow myself to feel old.

In the meantime, here's another novel excerpt:

When I get dressed in a rush that I try to not have look like a rush she gives me a look that certainly hints—with the subtlety of an open-handed ass slap—that just maybe my mind was somewhere else. But I give her a goodbye kiss and the stock “I have to get up early” excuse and she says nothing, giving me a cute half-smile as I leave her apartment.

Perhaps we should backtrack.

I met this Sarah, the-one-I-rolled-off-and-ignored-the-“what about my needs”-look-on-her-face Sarah, approximately 3 hours ago.

Jason, Mike and I all met up at the Wing to go Hunting. I wasn’t feeling it much and hanging back at the bar, drinking a PBR and feeling kind of stupid for picking such a “college” beer. But going for that disinterested, “approachable guy” vibe. Other Sarah squeezed in next to me to order a mojito—always a bad choice at a place that has 75 beers on tap and bartenders that have trouble when the mixdrinks get more complicated than the (1) Alcohol + (1) mixer=drink variety. Plus it made it too easy to give her shit.

“So,” I said, not looking at her, “do you drink anything that’s trendy or do you really like them?"

“What?”

“A mojito. ‘Couple years back no one ordered them.”

“So?” Pretty girls aren’t really used to getting shit from guys.

“It makes you come across as one of those people who would never have ordered cosmos if you hadn’t seen Carrie do it on Sex and the City—a”

“That’s not—”

“—follower. You follow the popular trends.”

“Look buddy, you don’t even know me—”

“But you’ve got great taste in trends.” Her drink shows up, I nod to the bartender—it’s on my tab now. “They’re quite good, especially here. And those lowrise jeans you’ve got on really show off your hips.” I make an exaggerated squint. “Cute mole on the left hip there too…some really vain girls would hide it."

“Oh…thanks.” She’s trying to hide the confused smile behind the drink.

“That’s not your first drink is it?”

“Huh?”

“I ask because most sober girls don’t drink like 5 year-olds with Sippy Cups.”

She lowers the drink, still smiling; still with that quizzical look in her eyes.

“It’s not, you’re right. But I’m doing better than my roommate.” She points towards a side booth where a girl is slumped in the corner with one of those trendy chick bowler hats pulled over her face. Another girl sits next to her, nervously sipping at some pink concoction and talking to the roommate while two obviously hard-up and trying too hard frat boys attempt to hit on both girls.

“Well, aren’t you going to introduce me to her?” I say, and start walking over, grabbing her by the hand. Turns out she doesn’t need as much steadying as I thought.

“Wait,” she says, stopping as we’re halfway there and eyeing me with what she wants dearly to be suspicious eyes but really just look sultry, “what is your name?”

“Scott.” I shake, awkwardly, the hand I’m holding.

“Oh. Cute.” She stops for a second, giggles to herself. “I’m Sarah.”

I probably make a face to this news, but she had had far too many to notice.

“Hey man, who the fuck are you?” the more sober jackass says as we get to the booth.

“Me? I’m just a dude delivering a message. See those three girls over there?” I point to the far side of the bar, where three spaghettistrap blondes are swaying and being that special kind of Girls’ Night Out drunk loud. There’s that special high-pitched shriek that usually accompanies a flashing or signals an immanent one. “They wanted me to ask you guys if you were up for body shots.”

This is greeted with a doubled “Dude” and then some quick stumbling, as the two morons rush off to the other side of the bar, where they’ll spend a good five minutes just trying to get near the drunk girls and then another five or more of attempting to talk to them. I figure I’ve got fifteen minutes easy before they even figure out they’ve been had. Maybe they’ll get lucky, but the odds aren’t in their favor.

“Never underestimate the stupidity of horniness” I say to Sarah’s more sober friend, who laughs. Sarah and I slide into the now vacant side of the booth. She drops a hand to my leg.

“Thanks. I hate guys like that” she says. Then she gives my leg a squeeze. The old “I like guys like you though” signal.

From there it was just playing the waiting game. When you break it down, it’s just like any other checklist:

Wait for the perfect time to suggest going to a different bar: check.

Wait for Sarah’s friends to get in line for drinks first (after the roommate is deposited in a new booth): check.

Wait until Sarah leans in close to sneak the first kiss: check.

Wait until someone in the group says “we should get a cab” to offer sober driving skills: check.

Wait for Sarah to say “it’s really late, are you ok to drive home” after we’re at her place and the roommate is passed out in her room: check.

Wait for Sarah to initiate contact when we’re in her bed: check.

And that was that.