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What You Think Ain't Right
by Martin Friel.



It had been a week. She knew that. She could even get it down to the hour. Seven days and nine hours. She stopped outside the pub. Paused. She checked herself out in the reflection of the window. The black poster gave her a nice ad hoc mirror. She straightened her hair; smoothed the skirt over her ass, her thighs. She turned side on – looked at her ass, ran her hands over it, slowly, pushing the palm in slightly as she got to the point where the cheeks joined the thighs. A little squeeze. She allowed herself a smile. Turned full on again, deep breath and walked in. She walked like she felt - good.

She could feel the heads turning – male and female. The heels, she knew, always made her ass move in a certain way. It always got attention. The skirt, the stockings, the top, the lipstick and the hair piled up. All of it got attention. But not the attention she needed.

He was behind the bar, oblivious. Serving customers, slowly, without interest.

She approached, hesitated, waiting for his reaction. She moved to catch his attention – dusted her top, running her hand over her chest. She slowed just at the point where the breast cupped, almost caressing herself. He turned - his eyes flashed up and down her body. She waited for the smile, the subtle adjustment in his trousers.

He smiled a mute ‘hello’, turned and carried on.

It was only she that stiffened. The embarrassment was intense. The whole pub had been watching her firm, lithe body walk across the room, offer itself to this man and be rebuffed. Her ass tightened. She didn’t know what to do. The barmaid came along – she ordered a large gin and tonic texting on her phone as her drink was put together, looking busy, disinterested.

She took the glass and stood around at the bar, waiting for him. He’s elsewhere, mentally. But he does make small talk. “How you been”? “Been up to much?” “Busy working you know?”

She hangs around. 27 but feeling like a 16 year old. She can’t help it. She’s been resisting since that morning. There’s been the odd text but she’s held back, resisted, playing it cool. But she had to come down tonight.

She attempts to make small talk. She knows he likes Celine. She clutches ‘Journey …’ in her hands, making sure the title is facing him. He sees it, she sees a flash in his eyes but he turns, busy. She opens the book, flicks a few pages trying to focus – she’s had a few drinks. She feels ridiculous.

She looks up, he’s still distracted. She senses all eyes on her, everyone is looking, smirking at her defeat. She can feel the pressure on her shoulders – she buries her head in the book. Takes a long draught of the drink – only a bit left. Looks up, follows him as he walks along the bar. Nothing.

She looks behind her. No-one is paying any attention or looking. They have their own things going on. They don’t care.

She looks at him. Neither does he.

She gives up, sits down at a couch near the bar, crosses her legs takes a sip of her drink and rests her hand on her high knee. She leans forward and places the drink down on the table. She runs her hand up her thigh. The edge of the skirt rides up exposing the flank of her thigh, the taught muscle giving slightly under the gentle pressure of her hand.

She looks up – his back is turned. She starts composing a text. It’s for him. It runs to three screens. She’s been hot, horny, filthy. She’s offered herself as a slut to him, begging for his cock to take her in every hole, any way he wants … digitally. She checks the message. Happy, she sends it. She looks up at him with a smile. She hears the tone of reception on his phone. He turns, picks up the phone. She holds her breath as he reads it. The anticipation is almost too much.

She watches him. He looks at it. Puts the phone back where it was. The expression on his face has not changed. Completely indifferent.

The shame, the feeling of rejection, the sense of stupidity is almost too much.

She takes a large gulp of the gin. It steadies her a little. The glass is empty.

She can’t understand why he’s being this way. Why doesn’t he want her? Everyone else in the place wants her – she knows that. Why not him? She goes to the toilet. Looks in the mirror. She’s good. Nice, blonde hair. Her tits firm and full. She stands on her tip toes and pivots to look at her ass. It’s good – high and firm, the legs supporting it slim and sporty. What’s wrong with him? What is it he doesn’t want?

She starts to organise it in her head. She remembers last week when he took her home, when they did everything possible, when he ruined her. And she loved it. She wondered where that had gone. Who was he to ignore her like that? After everything, (everything) she had given him? To make her look so stupid in front of everyone. She could have had anyone in that pub, man or woman. Who the fuck was he to ignore and humiliate her? She’d given everything.

She took one last glance in the mirror – she liked what she saw. Hot, but with a face that said “don’t fuck with me” … or so she hoped.

She marched out. The door of the toilet slammed against the wall as she sauntered through, a bit drunk. Now EVERY eye was on her.

She marched up to the bar, confident. ”So what’s the problem? Come on? Let’s love a little.” She had a slur. She immediately felt stupid but the hope still bubbled away inside.

As she focused, she realised she was talking to his back. The rejection felt like she had bounced off him like a forcefield, back to her seat. He didn’t stir, at all.

She slumped on the sofa, crossed her legs, felt her thigh, looked around. No-one was looking anymore. She uncrossed her leg, pulled her skirt down to the knee. She looked at her phone. No messages. It felt quiet. It felt cold.



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