Irish Pub, Late Night

As I mentioned before, this is a continuation on things previously written (ie. this would appear after "Gate 74" from before). Again, just a draft / musings which might result in a draft.

Ingrid came into the bar tonight, around 11:30. I knew her vaguely in high school, but she was into artsy stuff that I couldn't penetrate. I went to a play once that she was in, "All's Well That Ends Well." Shakespeare. He's tough enough to understand, regardless of the 3 hard lemonades I'd pounded in the parking lot beforehand, but there was something about the way she talked, said her lines. I've never been able to forget it. It was almost like singing, but not in a way that was lame or contrived at all. It was lyrical, literally. I wanted to kiss her right on the mouth when she started going on about how "an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities."
She recognized me pretty quickly, though I'm not sure why. I can't remember us ever having any sort of real conversation, besides stupid smiles in the hallway and me feigning interest in the school plays. But when she saw me, something in her eyes changed, like she'd isolated a goal or something. She sidled up to the bar, and ordered something like whiskey on the rocks. I asked her what kind, pretending not to know her, wanting to force her to jog my memory of who she was. Somehow needing her to perform that in front of me, for my benefit and no one else's.
I guess I wasn't very convincing, sizing her up, probably too noticeably. As I would have guessed, she started going on about New York, how she lived there now, and how great it was. I always feel like the second someone spends more than a month there, it's all about how much better you are than everyone else. She was calling it "the city", like it's the only one there is, and getting all uppity about it. I gave her the cheapest whiskey we had, and after the first sip she looked surprised, disgusted, and then, immediately aware of herself, tried to cover up both, drinking the syrupy liquor too quickly, trying to seem used to it. I should've felt bad, I guess, but I didn't. It was like getting back at her for how annoying, yet compelling she was. She was quickly drunk, honest, and full of herself.
I quickly started blowing my own cover, too, peppering the conversation with memories I had of her in high school. I think I even mentioned the Shakespeare, which must have totally given me up. I think I ended up giving her three whiskeys, but I was spitting out the shots that drunk frat boys were buying me after the Phillies won around 11. I wanted to keep being able to notice how her eyes were getting wider and how she would laugh constantly, avoiding my eyes and staring down at the bar. I started wondering, after hours had gone by and she hadn't spoken to anyone else, if she'd come here just to see me. Usually girls come in packs, only occasionally breaking away from the herd and letting anyone else in. Penetrating those groups is both impossible and terrifying. Somehow, she came with just herself and no attachments, except maybe to me.
Soon enough, we closed, and it was clear she couldn't drive, so I offered, with bad intentions disguised by honorable ones.