It's midnight, and I only recently returned from an evening out at my favorite local bar, The Garden of Eden, for my friend's birthday party.
Now, slightly inebriated, I'm typing on my laptop, wondering why it seems that married men can't get enough of me, yet single men won't come near me. Every time I visit a bar, a different married man finds his way toward me, his breath smelling of gin and tonic, lit cigarette between his fingertips, telling me how wonderful I am and how stupid my ex was to let me go. I laugh at their comments and turn my attention toward my friends, eager to deflect their advances.
I won't lie, part of me feels almost flattered that they're coming onto me. I may not take them seriously, or have any intention of giving into their advances, but I still take their compliments and store them away for an insecure day. But more often than not, I wonder why I'm a fantastic candidate for The Other Woman, but can't find one person for whom I'd like to be The Only Woman.