I want to tell him that going to have “a drink” with him sounds about as appealing to me as going to catholic mass on sunday after I drank and danced on a marble bar and threw up on myself on Saturday. 

I want to tell him that I don’t care what he does, where he goes, what kind of food he likes.  I want to tell him that I probably will be bored halfway through “the drink.”  I want to tell him, I really don’t think I have it in me to go and talk in a loud bar about politics or art or whatever subject we know makes us sound semi intelligent, when we are actually just regurgitating what we’ve read on the internet.  I want to tell him that I would rather come home to my messy apartment that suddenly has way too much furniture in it.  I want to tell him that he will probably be bored with me.  I want to tell him that the fact that I work in a bar is misleading; I rarely if ever like to go out to bars.

I want to tell him, I wait for him sometimes to see if he will come in and be intense and sweet and I want to tell him that asking if his strategy with women was always, “shamelessly available” actually meant that I was asking if he was really interested or just like this with everyone.

I’ll probably just tell him I’m busy.