Matt sat at the bar, nursing a glass of beer, pretending to watch the game, trying to look nonchalant. Chill as a cucumber. That was him - the defintion of cool.

Deep breath.

His nerves still buzzed with tension, and while his pulse didn't exactly race, it still seemed pretty loud.

It was 9:47.

She'd said she'd be here at 9:00. By any reasonable standard, she should have shown up half an hour ago.

Focus on the game...

He glanced at his cell-phone again.

It showed the time to be 9:48. And that was all it showed.

You'd think that bitch could at least have called, he thought to himself - relishing that word, bitch, clinging to it like a life-preserver. The anger behind it was a fleeting balm to his wounded ego and rattled nerves. You want to stand me up? You'll never know what you missed out on. Bitch...

But what if she still showed? You never knew with women - so unpredictable; so inconsistent. And this one - good god, if anyone was ever worth waiting for, it was her.

He thought of the pictures she'd posted on her personal web page, and stifled his anger.

Fashionably late. Of course. Not that he really knew, in relative terms, how much lateness was "fashionable" as opposed to "inconsiderate" and "rude." He was just a guy, and guys were not privy to such knowledge.

Roll with the punches.

Don't try to understand.

And don't give up too quickly, you've waited a long time for this. Because you just never know...

He noticed with dismay that his glass had somehow emptied itself. He frowned into it; without the distraction of sipping at it, the indeterminate - if not futile - wait would be all the more painful.

"Have another?" asked the bar tender.

It was tempting...yet, he was hesitatnt to get drunk, in case she DID show.

"Eh...no. Not yet anyway."

One chance, first impression, and all that.

Even if she did purportedly love her beer.

And baseball.

And tattoos...

He glanced at his cell phone again.

9:56.

Fuck this, he thought. I'm getting another beer.

And why not? She was almost an hour late now. He didn't really want to go home, to wallow in self-pity in the loneliness of his apartment; and though he refused to concsiously admit it, part of him was still waiting. He'd stay and get his buzz on; why not? And if she did show up, and he was a bit shitfaced - well? That was her fault, for making him wait so long. She could taste the sting of guilt, and deal with it.

If beautiful girls were capable of such an emotion...which was dubious.

He ordered the beer, and being a Tuesday - and a slow one at that - it was in his hand immediately.

It didn't really matter, one way or the other. He was in a bar drinking alone, and while it wasn't everything he might have asked for, life could be worse.

He started at the sound; the scrape of wood on wood. Could it be? - but no. Too far away. A complete stranger had taken the stool two seats away from him. A fuckin' guy at that. Any girl might have been welcome at this point; any (at least, almost any) female attention would have been just the thing, right now.

And one more drink would loosen the guidelines even more.

He laughed inwardly, in spite of himself - and then grimaced. But of course it was a fuckin' guy - and that did him no good either way.

The newcomer ordered a beer of his own, and having settled into his seat, opened a magazine he had apparently brought with him. He spread it out on the bar, leaning over it as though absorbed.

He regarded the unwelcomed arrival through the corner of his eye, then quickly looked away, loathe to be seen so much as acknowledging him.

Who the hell did that - come to a bar to fucking read?

He glanced at his phone again.

10:03.

Didn't he have any pride?

Maybe he should try calling her...

There was a rustle of a page being turned, and involuntarily, he glanced at the newcomer, actually turning his head to do so this time.

The other guy flicked his gaze back at him, and there was a split-second of awkward eye-contact. Mr. I-come-to-the-bar-to-read gave him an almost imperceptible nod - chilly politeness, thinly disguised as terse male cameraderie. Clearer than words, it said, "don't pretend to know me."

He didn't return the stranger even that.

Asshole.

Wanna go? He thought to himself, taking another long drink, regarding The Reader from the corner of his eye as he did so. There was more than one way to recover a bruised ego, and either way, liquid courage would help him get there.

Another glossy page rustled.

His glance shifted to the magazine itself. His attitude towards the man suddenly shifted, as he realized what it was.

"What's that?" he said, in a friendly, inquisitive voice. He set his again-empty glass down with a clink, and indicated the mag with a sharp little nod of his own, as if pointing at it with his chin.

"Skin and Ink."

A pause.

Another rustle.

The bartender hovering, slightly off to one side, poised to offer him another when he could do so without interrupting.

A clink, as the man with the magazine sipped his own beer, then set it back down, taking care that no condensation dripped on the pages.

"Another?" Asked the bartender.

"Yeah!"

His third beer came, and after a long enough pause, he said to him, "Got any? Ink?"

"No...but I've been thinking about it."

Another pause, another rustle.

"You?"

The diversion was more than welcome at this point; for a moment, he forgot the absent girl entirely.

"Yeah. Three, actually."

"Yeah? What of?"

"Well," he said, "there's this here -" he rolled up his left sleeve to reveal a Celtic cross, "and this," he said, pivoting on his seat and exposing the other arm, to reveal a tribal design encircling his right bicep, "and then I got this one." He pivoted back, and pulling lifting the ankle of his baggy jeans, exposed a gecko-design on the back of his left calf.

The man with the magazine leaned forward, apparently rapt with interest.

"Not bad! Those are cool." He took another drink. "They did a good job on those. All by the same artist?"

"Yeah, I go to The Spider's Lair. I always ask for the same guy. If you do get one, have him do it." He pulled out his wallet, and finding a business card, handed it to the newcomer.

Magazine-man took another drink, and without setting it down this time, asked him another question. "So, what do they all mean?"

"Eh...I just liked the designs."

"Yeah, I hear ya. Those are good ones. He really did do a good job on them."

He took another drink, and turned back to his magazine.

"So, what're you thinking of getting?"

Pause. Rustle.

"Still don't know."

"Yeah, think about it. It's a big decision!"

"Yeah...don't wanna get something I'll be sick of later."

"Hahahah, no, you don't wanna do that!"

Rustle.

And now the stranger was once again absorbed in his magazine. Silence filled the room like a woolly, suffocating fog, as the momentum of the conversation died off.

"Well, thanks for the card."

He gazed morosely into his half-full beerglass, remembering why he'd came.

"Yeah..."

He glanced morosely at his phone again.

10:22.

The Reader sipped his beer, then spoke again.

"Alright over there?"

Pause.

"Eh...yeah..."

Rustle.

Finally, he made up his mind to spill it.

"I was supposed to meet someone, but, she hasn't showed."

Rustle.

"Maybe she's running late."

The conversation continued at a halting pace, as Reader absorbed his magazine, and Matt chose his words, his head heavy with disappointment and alcohol.

"I dunno...I don't think she's coming. She should've been here a while ago."

Sip. Clink.

"How long have you been waiting?"

"Too long."

Rustle.

"Someone you know?"

"No, not really. We were supposed to meet for the first time tonight."

Rustle.

"Bitch stood you up?"

Matt let out a long sigh, though on the inside he perked happily to hear another give voice to his own thought.

"Yeah. Bitches do that..."

"Sometime it happens."

"Yeah..."

"Well, that sucks, I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah...well...it's OK..."

"There's always another one..."

"Yeah...there is..."

And once again, the conversation came to a stand-still.

"Did you try calling her? It might not hurt if she's late."

He picked up his phone, and dialed.

"Out of service! That BITCH!"

The game had just ended.

Rustle.

"Dude, sorry..."

10:29.

"I'm gonna call it a night," said Matt, as much to the bartender as his new acquaintance.

He paid, and slid his chair back, taking a moment to steady himself.

"Hey, sorry it didn't work out."

Matt gave a sigh of resignation.

"Yeah, well, whatever."

As he shuffled towards the door, he stopped suddenly, and turned to the man who was still gazing at the photos.

"Hey, good luck with that tat!"

"Thanks! I'm sure he'll do a good job."

"Oh, he will. Hey, if I see you in here again, you'll have to show it to me!"

"Alright!"

"Cool!"

Matt turned to leave, and there was a muffled thump as the door swung shut.

He closed the magazine with a contemptuous flick, and leaning back on his stool, took a long drink of his beer. Lifting the glass one last time, finishing it off.

Fuckin' idiot, he thought to himself, grimacing at the childishly bad job the "artist" had done on the stock images. Keep your greasy, defaced hide...

Still, that ape had diverted his attention for a night. It wasn't like there was much else to do on a Tuesday.