Entering The Pub

The pub is already humming when you walk in, clatter of plates, the low thrum of chatter, the squeak of shoes across the sticky floor. You pause by the door, tug your blouse down lightly, and scan the room.

And there he is. Back corner, half-pint in front of him, scrolling his phone like he’s not waiting for anyone. Younger in the flesh than you expected, sharper jaw, a bit of that restless energy in the way his leg bounces under the table.

You take a breath, head up, and walk over.

“Hi,” you say, sliding into the seat opposite before you can overthink it.

He looks up, and the way his eyes flick over you, blouse, hair, the little flash of lace where your bra peeks if you lean, tells you everything. Not rude, not leering, just direct. He was expecting this, too.

You order a drink, a glass of white wine, just to have something to hold. The first few minutes are awkward in the way these things always are: talk about traffic, work hours, the menu. But the undercurrent is there, steady, undeniable.

You don’t talk for long. Half an hour, maybe less. You know it, he knows it, this isn’t about lingering over dinner. Every time his eyes catch yours, there’s that unspoken: are we doing this or not?

When you finally stand, leaving your glass half-finished, your heart’s going. He doesn’t even need to ask; you just give him the smallest nod, and he falls into step beside you as you head for the door.

Outside, the night air hits your skin, cool against the heat flushing through you. For a second, you think of Tom at home, kids tucked up in bed, the familiar comfort of your life waiting for you.

And then the younger man glances at you, lips tugging in the barest smirk, and you know: you’re not going home untouched tonight.