When you first meet him - a gentleman in his early forties at the corner of that small Irish bar. A Donald Draper kind of man - handsome, neatly-shaved, obviously rich, self-possessed. You know he has had a world of women since his early age. You know he belonged to a world one computer screen from yours. But somehow, this time, he's right there, sitting at the corner with a neat whisky (and the usually rude bartender was very polite to him: "how may I help you, sir?"). And you see the corner of his mouth rising along with his eyebrows in such a tender, almost caring, way, an extraordinary attention that you found yourself too plain, too humble to deserve. What can you do? He came to you in such a strong, assertive manner of oud and smoky leather that almost suffocates you - you, you small college girl in a Forever-21 dress and a W.H. Auden in your purse. Then he left, with an astounding brunette holding a Coach purse ("How do you do, Mr.So-and-so"). There you go, staring at them with your eyes empty, almost vacant. The warmth of smoky leather and the one-second thrill of the fact that you *were* seen by someone like that. The toxic dream of becoming something different is now in you, lingering with that warm, tender, romantic aura of him.
Then you went back to your corner, alone, with your gin-n-tonic (rudely thrown at you, small, powerless Asian woman). The ice was melting inside it. your fingertip lingered on the wet glass. It was a sour, cold touch.