Beauty in a Bar on a Wednesday Afternoon

We are alone. Each surrounded by a few small groups. I am wondering if I can work up the courage to start a conversation, but I have nothing to converse about except how pretty you are (and how I'm pretty uninteresting). People laugh and chat about school and curse their professors for assigning grades that were most likely earned. The Foosball pawns feet are up like a team of synchronized swimmers; rusty spikes impaling their bodies with no means of playing the game that defines them. I sip on my beer and continue listening to the conversation over my shoulder, while remembering not to take at least one of my eyes off of you. They are spewing off political opinions and laughing and drinking. I know if I wanted I could impress most; spout off opinions of my own with facts to back them. I am quite impressive, but those words wouldn't impress you. I'd sound like another one of them and what's so special about that? Sometimes acting smart isn't the smartest thing to do. I can't tell if you are looking at me or through me but it doesn't matter. My wish of having you won't come true any time soon. Another conversation to my left is muffled chatter about philosophy, or quality or... something. Behind you the bartender tries to talk to someone, but even the regulars don't know who she really is. Each piercing she has added to her body has sunk her deeper into her lonesome life. Thirteen grams: thirteen reasons to stay. She's not even good at pretending to be happy, but then again neither am I. The conversations in the bar no longer co-exist, beginning to blend into a low drone. I catch your eyes as they glow green from the streak of sunshine through the one window in the bar. We are silent.