You say this in a rushed and slurry dialect, much like english, much like that line should have sounded, had it not been said for just about all the wrong reasons.

Still, you did get her attention. Like it was hard not to, she could probably smell the booze on you from your bar stool.

"Oh really?" she replies, cooly; like the last three men who walked by had said the same damn thing, only without falling over.

You steady yourself and look her over again, now that you're up close you can really see her for everything she is; she's wearing contact lenses, and her constant blinking proves that they are extremely irritating on her eyes. Her hair has been dyed repeatedly, and not professionally either; it's become grown out and faded, which compliments her manicure quite nicely. She's all broken bells and whistles that have lost their shine.

She's been trying too hard since her freshman year. You don't remember her face, but you know her type. She was spring fling princess and winter formal's snow queen, and likely kept all those pink sashes and fake tiaras on top of the toilet that she heaved into night after night, begging for that last stubborn pound to disappear.

She's the female version of who you are becoming.

You realize then that you've been standing there stupidly for a good thrity seconds and haven't said a word. The only reason she hasn't walked off elsewhere is because you have her trapped between the buffet table and the adjoining wall.

"Are you alright?" she asks warily, "Maybe you should sit down..."

"What's your name?" you ask, still not moving.

She hesitates, looks around the room, and says very lowly, "Katelyn Ratcliffe. They used to call me Kat or Katie."

If you were sober, the name might ring a bell. But it makes you think. This woman, now actually a woman and not just some child who developed early, once had everything. She was every man's dream and every girl's sharp pang of envy. Maybe she had been the subject matter of your midnight fantasies. Now, she is just a woman with her curves falling out of place and too much product in her hair. A nobody.

No, she is an everybody.

You suddenly feel very sober as you look at her. You stand straighter and when you open your mouth, you speak clearly.

"Would you like to go for a coffee?"

She smiled, hesitantly with a look of insult in her eyes. "What about that urge you mentioned?" she asked, reaching for my arm.

"Forget what I said," you tell her, taking her drink from her and putting it on the table. "I'm not in highschool anymore."

RATE THIS BRANCH!