You always remember your first. For her, it was the sixth.
“Finish that and we’ll go back to my apartment,” he said, downing his beer.
She had just returned to her barstool, to her unprotected drink, and suddenly this crass ultimatum. How fucking predicable. Hopes were high for him too. Smart, charming, funny. He could’ve been different; he could’ve been the one.
Not anymore.
He was nothing but a future statistic now. A few sentences in next week’s newspaper if he was lucky.
She waited a beat, then pushed away the tainted glass of Chardonnay.
“Let’s do my place instead.”
The Weekday One Hundred 