The astrologist told me I would meet someone within the year, but that was in 2013 and not where I wanted to go with this story. She also said he would be a good person and I would be exceedingly happy, which seems like a pretty easy thing to guarantee, since psychopaths aren’t really my type and my optimism is difficult to dissuade. 

I read that timing is near impossible to foretell, so post-reading I feel I’m perpetually on the cusp of some great new possibility. Even though I read that in a fiction story about magic, and most days are like today, where things are great but I don’t talk to a lot of other humans who aren’t drunk. 

You should know that the common denominator for everyone is relationships. It takes about three drinks, but even the bro-iest bro eventually sidles up to his other bros, and dissects the conversation he had with the smoke he’s obsessed with, using analytics and questions like, “what should I text?” 

What kind of shot you send over depends on what kind of message you want to send, how many other girls she’s with indicates different challenge levels, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone pick someone out at the bar and say, “I want to date her for two to three years and figure out her brain.” 

I also have never had anyone reel me into a ruse before, but I was wary from the jump. 

The guy came in first. He didn’t want the menu, he did want to start a tab, and he seemed content to watch the Bruins game without an eye to the entrance. She came in about thirty minutes later, looked directly at him with an open mouth, knowing glance, and then sat down exactly ten seats away. 

She held onto her scarf with both hands and looked back over at him. 

He had not stopped looking at her, eyebrows raised, a hopeful countenance. 

I assumed they were an online date, but neither of them said anything and they sat, ten bar stools apart, for the fifteen minutes it took her to decide on a drink. After she settled on Chardonnay, he called me over.

“That woman over there,” he whispered, but pointed, as if she were not, in fact, the only woman in the entire bar. 

“Yes,” I nodded.

“She just smiled at me so big.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“I’ll take another Coors, but tell her I want to get that drink for her too. You know, because she smiled at me.”

I told her. He moved over eight seats and she moved over one. Which is really sweet and they ordered pizza and it’s all part of the alignment of the stars, and maybe someone should ask them if twins run in their families, too. 

Except, I hear things, like the play by play of text exchanges or how if you send over a shot that tastes sweet those girls will go home with you, and all the things you think are just yours on that sea-side of the bar are mine too. And from what I heard, these two totally already fucking knew each other. 

I guess what I’m trying to say is that most days are like today. That perpetual cusp is such a tease, and timing really is near impossible to tell.