Black Hair, Missed Window

🎯 Field Report

After a lazy start at the hipster bar—edible still tapering off, no approaches—I headed to a louder, dressier spot. The kind of place where women actually try. The energy was better. I found a seat in the middle of the bar, high traffic, front row view. No hunting. Just posted.

The bartender handed me something tequila-based in a tiki glass.

To my left, a girl ordered three margaritas—one with a pineapple splash. I clocked the order. Filed it.

Behind me, on my right, was the one that mattered.
Black hair, blue eyes. White top. Casual posture, toned arms, nice smile.
She wasn’t performing. She just looked good.

I turned, smooth.
“Was that you with the pineapple margarita?”

She smiled. Warm, friendly.
Said no, but appreciated the assumption.

Her name was Blake. She came with a friend who liked chess night—whatever that means. She asked for my name. I didn’t ask for hers.

She grabbed the drinks and I said, “Good luck carrying all that.”
She repeated my name—twice.
“I’ll see you when you get back,” I said.

She smiled like she meant it.

Half an hour later, I’m sipping a beer, prompting ChatGPT about my business. I feel movement behind me.
It’s her. Back at the bar.

Window open again.

Instead of making the move, I ordered green tea shots—for her and her heavier friend. Lazy generosity. I’ve got money now. I use it more than I should.

We clinked glasses. Took the shot.
And right then—another guy slid in.

Just like that, my window closed.