A Sunday Night in November

She was staring at me, and it wasn't making me happy.

Of that I was certain.

Of that I was wrong.

I was not wrong - this time anyways - because I am so often so wrong about so much when it comes to women. No, this time anyways I was so wrong for another reason entirely.

She had come in with an older gentleman of her same approximate age and I am reasonably certain I have seen her before, and should have known better.

Her brow was moving as if she was trying to focus, to concentrate. Her stare was direct, there was nothing of note around me and no one else near by. She matched my stare.

I was not upset, just a bit unnerved. Really, I wasn't staring back, just looking a few times in her direction and she never flinched or turned from my glances.

And then a few minutes later her companion returned with a drink for her and guided her hand to it. And I realized she was never staring at me in the first place. She could not see me. Her seat was set to where she could easily hear the band that was about to start. It felt like I should have known better.

And I tried very, very hard to stop feeling like a narcissistic ass.