You know this because drinks spill in your wake. You know this because you look at these nervous boys and they quickly lower their eyes, or suddenly become terribly interested in the stucco patterns on the cream walls. You know this because your best friend told you how good you looked before you left the apartment. You know this because you are wearing all black. You know this because your blouse is tight. You know this because the bartender smiled at you when he handed you your drink, and you know that the next one is free, if you want it.

This little world revolves around you. You are an axis, the suns and planets and stars tilt and shine around your whimsy. Tides roll in, out. This place wouldn’t even exist if it weren’t for you.

You know this just like you know that your phone number will sweat off that boy’s hand before the end of the night and you don’t care because there’re a thousand of them in here and they will all want that number by the end of the night.

What did your mother say about men and trolley cars? It’s not true. Men are not like trolley cars. Men are like men. If anybody’s the trolley here, it is you, and they are all standing in the rain and waiting, impatient, cold, but ultimately grateful. They will thank you, worship your warmth and will not care if the movement is slow, or the transit takes them way out of their way. They will pay their fare of sacrifice and vulnerability. They will write their maudlin poetry and bring you flowers at work and think you are falling in love with them. Perhaps they will even think they are falling in love with you.

These games are amusing, aren’t they?

Their mistake is they think there are rules. They think you are bound by some kind of game theory, some quantifiable human interaction.

Adam Smith has no place here. Hobbes and Locke are pretenders. You are the sovereign. You are the prince Machiavelli never dreamed of. You are swift and decisive. You are the center, the nexus. And you are satisfied.