You're so Vain

I was in the middle of making pasta for dinner last Thursday when the phone
rang. It's Mike, a co-worker/friend of L's.

"I don't want to go home," he tells L.

"What do you mean you don't want to go home?"

"I just don't.  Ya'll wanna go out?"

L and I have been going out with Mike quite a bit in recent weeks.  L
asked if I minded, since I'd already started dinner.  I shrugged, stuck
the sauce in the fridge and put my shoes on.  I don't mind tagging along
so L can console his friend after what seemed to be a rough day,
and whatever I'd already done as far as dinner prep goes would keep
overnight.

Half an hour later, Mike swung by to pick us up, and the three of us
popped down to a little Irish joint we like.  The waitresses are cute
and perky, the food's good, and the drinks are cheap.  Can't beat that.

We're sitting around a small table, picking at appetizers and nursing
our respective drinks: Mike's a beer man, L likes his Jack and coke, and
I tend to go for a Long Island Tea.  The boys, of course, are oggling
every piece of girlflesh that walks through the door.  Nothing unusual
there.

Mike sets in to complaining (again) about how he can't find the  right girl.

"I'm at the point now that I'd even go for that," he tips his beer
towards a slightly busty brunette.  She's absolutely adorable: dark hair,
flashing eyes, bright smile.

"Well, what's wrong with her?"  L asks.

We already know the answer.  She isn't "perfect".

perfect: adj. five foot tall, blonde hair, blue eyes; weighs no more than
100 lbs.   (Definition by Mike)

I roll my eyes.  I really don't care if the guy's picky, I just wish he
wouldn't complain so much that he can't find a gal who's fun to hang
out with, smart, funny, and meets his outline for drop-dead gorgeous.  At
35 years old, he's still crushing on Barbie.

Mike's cel rings.

"Hello?... No, we said six... What do you mean six thirty? I was there at six, where were you? ... No, I left at six twenty. You were late... Now?!?" He looks at us, then away. "Sure, I'm on my way."

"What was that all about?" L asks, sucking a drummie dry.

"I was supposed to meet up with some people, to meet this girl, and she didn't show up."

"She didn't show up, or they didn't show up?"

"Well, none of them did."

"But they want you to go now..."

"Well, yeah," he says, upending his beer.

"You taking us with you, or dropping us off?" L's place is only a few blocks from the pub.

"Y'all can ride along. She's supposed to be hot."

Land I are sold.

The three of us pile into Mike's pickup and head to the city, to a little hole-in-the wall bar with a rooftop deck. Mike was right: the girl's amazing. Bright, funny, adorable, "perfect"... she's so put together, I can't imagine why a girl like her would let a friend hook her up.

Mike's falling all over himself. He's so nervous, he winds up ignoring her altogether. Eventually, the friend she came with and myself manage to shift around enough that the two young prospects wind up engaged in reasonably in-depth conversation. The entire time, she's got a glazed, bored-to-tears look. Maybe it was that third gin and tonic?

Finally, the friend stands up, brushes his hands down his trousers, and does the, "Oh, look at the time" bit. The group leaves, and it's back to the three of us.

"So," Mike says, eying me over the rim of his beer glass, "d'ya think she's out of my league?"

"How honest, exactly, do you want me to be, here?" I ask. We're all three drunker than we should be, given that we have work in the morning. I don't have a problem holding my tongue sober, but there's not even a slow-down when I'm sloshed. I figured I'd give him the chance to back out.

"As honest as possible, of course," he replies, diving head-first into a can of worms he didn't even appear to notice he was opening. He felt nervous, unsure. Obviously, not all of us are imbibed with confidence while searching for the bottom of a bottle.

"She's out of your league," I shrug and go back to nursing my Tea.

"What a bitch," he says to L.

"I told you, man," L says with a chuckle, "she's brutal!"

"Yeah, no kidding," Mike says, and goes back to sipping his beer. After a few seconds of thought, he turns back to me. "Yanno, I bet she wouldn't be out of my league if I got her to come to my place and showed her how much money I make."

He just doesn't get it...