Bait

A recently discovered blurb about the desire to meet people in natural settings.

I’m fine. Everything is fine.

I feel a tad anxious. Don’t look at me like that.

I’m refining vignettes.

If I forget to take a first day of school photo tomorrow morning, I’ll be so pissed.

Back-to-school shopping broke the bank.

Researching new pubs, analyzing if my pieces fit in their editorial cavities.

I’m on day 16 of my month-long Majestic membership on the app I loathe, Feeld. I’ve talked to my therapist about this endeavor. I want it to look like progress. Like actual inner-growth compared to all the other times.

I just need to get to my upcoming sensual release which is in a few days at an Airbnb that looks as if Donna from That 70s Show decorated the Formans’ basement where I get to take provocative pictures, one of my most favorite things to do! Pure joy. It’s been too long.

In the meantime, I found this odd piece in my Google Drive junk. It describes a past attempt to just meet someone in a natural setting, something that should be so simple. The ease of being bait.

But it never is easy.

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I sat at the bar in a floral dress with a flirty, A-line cut because I have an ulterior motive. No bra because summer is summer, and nipples are delightfully nipples.

The bar stool, with its thick, beveled armrests and ornate fabric, forced my posture to replicate regency. I was here because I had weighty matters to attend to.

The agenda:

Have a cider, probably papaya.

Order a caprese salad. I’ll worry about the mozzarella’s effects on my digestive system later.

Purchase three bottles of 2014 dry Riesling.

And most importantly, appear available if there was a reason to… a person to be available for.

My husband says this tasting room, the place I get my favorite Riesling, is not the place to pick up people because it has a “Boomer vibe.” (Sometimes I like Boomers.)

The sweet manager recognizes me and brings me my cider. I sip the fizzy sweetness as I pretend:

I have the most important email to read.

I get paid to doomscroll.

As if solving today’s Wordle will eliminate poverty and my lactose-intolerance.

I see her, the younger server, who even my husband, the only individual who is probably picker than me, was slightly smitten by. I didn’t even expect her to be here. Today she’s mostly held hostage by a group of older women upstairs who are celebrating something that displays sacrificial, compersive joy for a special honoree. I waited for their giddy haze to slide down the banister and shock my nervous system, but I savored my mozzarella balls instead.

My husband and I have talked about playing the strangers who come to the bar and watch to see if we get hit on by others, but it usually seems like too much work or we forget about it. What am I supposed to bring? A book? My laptop? My journal? Those all say: “Don’t bother me.” I can’t even focus on the menu in social settings.

I cut my mozzarella balls in half. I lick balsamic off my fork. Let this last.

I don’t have issues eating by myself or going to places solo. I actually enjoy the solitude, but I do have issue with not experiencing progressive purpose. My purpose is to be approached, and everyone else looks attached and content.

And then the worst thing happened: a band set up for live music. I just don’t get the appeal.

I signal to the manager that I’m ready to pay. As she packs and hands me my wine, the young server says, “Oh, I love your tattoos.” Her voice startles me. I smile and reply, “Thanks.”

I walk out and make it home before dinner.

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So now when I’m out and about, I do let myself linger and strike up conversation. When I feel eyes on me, in reciprocation, I lock mine in.

My husband says I can appear intimidating.

Hence, being back on the stupid app.