Happy Hour Heartbreak

You’ve been at this table before. It’s become a Wednesday routine of sorts: escaping from the office 15 minutes early to be one of the first ones through the door. You and Alice sit at a long high top table together, covering chair backs with your coats and tossing your work bags into seats, claiming it the way you’d claim a table at the library. You talk about the day’s meetings or your parents or your ex-boyfriends while you hold seats for your slower paced co-workers who also love happy hour, but not as much as the two of you. You sip wine and order bruschetta “for the table” and hold eye contact in an attempt to avoid the awkwardness of holding a big table in a steadily trafficked bar.

It is a big uncomfortable, but if you’re being honest with yourself, the fifteen to thirty minutes before everyone else arrives are your favorite.  Watching a work friendship evolve into a real friendship has been a beautiful experience for both of you, and you’re thankful for that, but it feels different now. It’s become more sensual: her hand grazing and her lingering hair touches have make your heart race and your stomach feels tighter every time you make eye contact.

You immediately notice Alice’s tank top. She took off her button-down -  shirt revealing a gray tank top over a thin lace bralette and that combination doesn’t quite qualify as a shirt and you feel a bit self-conscious on her behalf. That’s all it is. Or maybe it’s her new haircut – the way her brown waves frame her eyes so perfectly makes it difficult to break eye contact – but you aren’t quite sure if you want the haircut for yourself or if you want to run your fingers through her hair.

You definitely want to run your fingers through her.

You’re pretty sure she’s straight. You’ve talked about exes and dating enough that she would have mentioned it by now, like you did, so suavely. “And then I realized I had feelings for a GIRL. And my boyfriend thought I meant I wanted to fulfill his fantasy of having a threesome, which, I didn’t, at all. I hate that that is the bisexual stereotype – anyway. I’m bi, by the way.”

Alice seemed supportive and interested, but that was the opportunity. She definitely would have disclosed her own sexuality in that moment a few weeks ago if it was relevant. But you probably should confirm just in case. Because maybe she’s attracted to you, too, and that’s why she’s wearing the tank top and bralette inside an uncrowded air-conditioned bar where the temperature is cool enough that she definitely could have kept wearing her work shirt – the shirt that’s now loosely folded on the chair next to her.

She’s so pretty, you think. And you wonder if you’ve ever told her that, in that way. But you don’t have the chance because the rest of the team is here now and you’re thinking that maybe the shirt wasn’t for you after all. Maybe it was for Jared, who just conveniently grabbed her work shirt off the barstool next to her. Was she reserving it for him? She would have told you if she had a crush on him, right? You’re still sitting across from her but you feel a mile away now. You grab a slice of cheesy bruschetta while it’s still warm.  

It’s two hours later and you’re tipsy enough to speak freely without worrying about the repercussions. She stands and walks to your side of the table, grabs your hand, and pulls you away. Ten delicious seconds later, you’re both in line for the bathroom, and it might as well be heaven because it’s the first time you’ve been able to be together – just with her – since Jared arrived, and she hasn’t let go of her hand yet. You tell her that she’s pretty, like, really pretty, and she leans in for a hug and her lips graze your cheek but she’s drunker than you and you doubt she’ll even remember this. The bathroom’s free and she went in alone.

You emerge from the bathroom and everyone is dispersing from the long table you reserved two hours ago. Alice hooks her arms around your waist and leans her head on your shoulder and it feels so comfortable there. You offer to share a car home, but Sarah, from her apartment complex, says she can drive her. You look to her for confirmation and she shrugs so you hug goodbye and then you’re left waiting and wondering if you’re going to have a night like this again or if that was it – the fluke evening that you’ll be thinking about for four or five months before the crush goes away.

That’s the typical lifespan on your crushes, four to five months.

You get your own car and while you ride home and flip through photos on your phone. Most of them are selfies and you wonder if you’re too self-indulgent of a person. Most women your age have phones filled with photos of their kids and pets, right? You should get a dog. No, but maybe a cat. Do you even like cats?

Twenty minutes later, you’re home and staring at your kitchen and wondering why you didn’t finish the bruschetta. There was bruschetta left, abandoned on the table. You could have eaten that and now you wouldn’t be standing here in your empty kitchen wishing you had something to eat. But how could you think of food when Alice was hanging on your arm? You miss her. There’s a pizza in the freezer. You don’t feel like making it.

You should have told her how pretty she was before she was drunk. You’ll tell her tomorrow. You’re going to tell her and then you’re going to stare at her lips for a few seconds – just enough that she can’t deny how your gaze lingered – and that will be enough. And then you can ask her out, casually. Not a work thing, a post-work evening just the two of you. She’ll either accept or she’ll decline and then you’ll know.

* * * * *

It’s tomorrow. You’re in line for the coffee and Alice pops around the corner and your heart actually leaps into your throat. She’s so devastatingly beautiful and she’s watching you pour the coffee now. You see her eyes lingering on your mug – the one with the PRIDE flag that you selected so intentionally.

“I love that mug – I went to PRIDE in Boston with my college roommate last year and it was so fun.”

"Just say it," you silently remind yourself. You know you'll regret it if you don't.

“Thanks! I’m actually going to PRIDE happy hour on J-street next Thursday – you should come with me.” Perfect. Cool. Assertive. You did good, kid.

“Oh!” she says, and you hang on every single heartbeat between that and the next thing she says, “That’s so cool. Yeah, I’d love to go with you – as a friend. I’ve always secretly wanted to be a lesbian – I think relationships with women would be so fulfilling – I’m just not attracted to women, sadly.”

That is sad. And confusing. You wonder how long she’s been rehearsing that very specific heartbreaking line.

You go back to your desk and sip your coffee alone.