girl meets man

I don't like men who smoke. 

I don't like men who liquefy the idea of six-packs into the form of Bud Light.

I don't like men who spend their days at the pub, washing down little blue pills with one more swig of carbonated charm. 

I don't like men who cat-call and tell me they won't go home unless I come with them, even though I know I would run into their wife if I did.

I don't, I swear I don't.

They tell me my hair makes me look a little bit older. 

I never used to drink, now it's hard to be sober.

They always smell like they just showered instead of a week-long battle with their roommate over who would get the hot water.

I don't like it of course, obviously it's not appropriate.

I think I better leave before something happens that I might regret.

Something like honey whiskey kicking in.

Something like menthols dancing on whisps of liquor breath.

Something like glances across the bar that linger a second too long.

Glass up, eyes lock, scrawled handwriting on a credit slip spelling out an address.

Salt spills over the edge of a beverage napkin, but I don't think it's good luck.