Free I Love My Side of the Story by Sabrina Lacey

swarming past. As soon as I can’t see them anymore, I bounce
around people to catch up. For three blocks I follow them as they talk to each
other, saying things I can’t hear, things nobody in the world can hear, but
them. When the crowd swallows them and takes them away from me, I stop and a
sob catches in my throat. That’s what I want. What they have…
    “Are you sad?” I look down to see a
little girl, maybe six years old, her black hair curling out from beneath a
pink hat. “Why are you sad?”
    “Kayla! Leave her alone,” the mother
calls from where she’s zipping up the younger brother’s jacket. He struggles
against her, tugging.
    “But mommy, she’s sad!” Kayla calls back
from behind open innocence. “Why?” she asks again.
    I wipe my cheeks. “Um… I’m sad because I
want something I don’t have.”
    She shrugs with all of her body, the way
only children can, and says, “Then go get it!”
    “I’m sorry. She’s very strong-willed.
Kayla, come here! I have to catch Dylan!” her mom says, chasing the little guy
who’s made a run for it.
    “Bye!” Kayla says, and takes off after
her family.
    “Bye Kayla!” I call out loud enough for
her to hear. She waves, not looking back, the back of her hand tiny with nails
polished matching pink.
    Then go get
it. If it were only that easy, Kayla. Wait until you start dating.
    Where am I? I look around. This looks
familiar. I look up to find the bar Nicole and I were at last Saturday, the
night Jess introduced us to her new guy. The heavy charcoal grey door takes
effort to open and I give my ID to a very intimidating bouncer, inside. When he
smiles wide at me and says, “Welcome,” it takes me completely off guard.
    “Uh, thanks.” I take my ID and have the
odd feeling I’m supposed to be here. Pushing through the Friday night crowd -
sparse lighting, red booths, great music - I see a seat at the bar about to be
vacated by a guy in his early twenties with long shaggy hair and cool glasses.
Alternative music type. We exchange a polite smile while I wait for him to pay
his bill – I’m glad there’s a seat; my legs ache. He leaves me to it with
an open-palm wave like a magician showing you there’s nothing up his sleeve.
    Climbing onto the barstool, I reach
below the laminated counter for a hook to hang my bag on, and find one. I try
to add my jacket, but it won’t get on the hook. I wrestle with the little cloth
tag to stretch it, but it’s new and tight.
    “Having trouble?” asks a deep male voice
to my left.
    “I’m trying to get my coat on the hook,”
I grunt, hunched forward, both arms under the bar, struggling. From my
position, I crane my head to look at him, and when I see a gorgeous man –
sandy brown hair, warm eyes, also brown, well dressed, maybe six foot two or
three – I fail to hide a gasp. And here I am looking like The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Great. My fingers
finally manage to wrestle the coat’s tag into submission and I slide it on the
hook. I sit up quickly, straighten my posture, and run my fingers through my
hair.   
    “Got it. It’s fine. I got it on there,”
I say.
    He smiles, “It didn’t stand a chance.”
    I grin shyly. “Ha. That’s funny.” Wow, this guy is hot . I divert my ogling
gaze to the bartender, a striking woman with super-short jet-black hair and
pretty makeup. She asks what she can get for me, with a weird look in her eye. Him, I want to say, but instead I choose
the more civilized, “Do you have a nice chardonnay?”
    “How nice do you want it?” she asks,
referring to the price. Up against a wall
or swinging from a tree. I have a feeling he could do both.
    “Um…”
    “Seven, nine, or fourteen,” she offers. Times?
    “Get her the fourteen,” he answers. “And
put it on my card, please.” Oh… dollars.
    “You don’t have to do that,” I say,
flustered.
    “You deserve it. The battle of the coat
was won.” No man has bought me a drink since Josh and I started dating.