There was an undeniable anxiousness in the way that he acted, which he tried to cover by coolly taking a shot of tequila. He knew she could sense his nerves by the way his voice cracked as they struck up a conversation. She was in town for the week, visiting family; looking for someone to show her the town from someone besides her 55 year old aunt’s point of view. He started to turn red and get flustered.
He had to down another shot of tequila. It was the one thing that would calm his nerves in this situation. He started to gather the courage to try and ask to buy her a drink (with what he realized was the last of his money). Yet even with that last shot, he knew that the second those words left his mouth he would want to crawl under the bar and just hide. There weren’t enough booze on all of Bourbon Street to save him from the humiliation he knew he would feel if she said now.
He started to convince himself he’d get denied. Every guy gets denied by girls like her, with her flashing smile, glowing skin and clothes that were tight in all the right places. And it would be so cliché. Besides, even if she did accept: she’d take the drink, let him know he didn’t have a chance, walk away and leave him with only a penny and some lint in his pocket. If he was going to buy one last drink it was going to be a third shot of tequila, because that was his one hope of forgetting this entire night, and his lack luster performance in the field.
He ordered that last shot and placed the last of his money on the counter, and made an off hand comment about how the bar had collected more money from him than the IRS. She gave a slight laugh and stood up to whisper in his ear before she left him alone at the bar
“You know, I really thought you would be the first nice guy tonight to buy me a drink.”