She Turned Him Down at the Club (Patreon)

She spotted you from across the bar the second you walked in. You could tell by the way her eyes tracked you through the crowd, that half-smile pulling at her red lips like she already knew how this conversation was going to end.

When you finally worked up the nerve to say hi, she was kind about it. Genuinely kind. But honest.

It is never going to work between us, she said, leaning against the bar in a black leather dress that looked like it was painted on over shoulders wider than the doorframe. The neon lights caught the veins running down her biceps and she was not even flexing. Not yet.

She ran through the reasons like she had given this speech before. The last guy she dated, she accidentally picked him up during a hug. He went silent for a week. The one before that tried to carry her over a puddle and threw out his back. She had to carry him to the car.

You are like five foot what, she said, looking down at you. I wear heels and I am literally looking at the top of your head right now.

Six meals a day, she explained. Six. You would go broke by Tuesday just feeding her. She snores like a diesel truck. She squeezes things in her sleep, and her last boyfriend woke up on the floor every single night. She did not even notice.

The whole time she talked, the bass from the speakers rattled your chest, and people in the club kept glancing over. Not at you. At her. At the arms, the shoulders, the way she took up space without apology.

Then she smiled. That same half-smile from before.

But hey. You want to buy me a drink, I will totally let you feel my bicep. Best offer you are getting tonight.

She flexed. The arm went up like a mountain forming in real time. The leather dress creaked.

You ordered two drinks.

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