Asystole ✷ Mark Sloan

𝟬𝟯𝟵 grieve me

𝙓𝙓𝙓𝙄𝙓.
GRIEVE ME

──────

NEW YORK

"THE FUCKER STOOD me up," was my explanation for being late.

I stomped into the bar, throwing down my belongings onto the free chair, barely even sparing him a glance. I caught sight of myself in the mirror over his head; I couldn't tell whether it was sour mood, boiling temper or the mood lighting in this place, but I had a distinctive red tint to my skin. 

I scoffed, grabbing the drinks menu almost immediate to my collapse on the chair; across from me, Mark just cocked his head to the side.

"Good day, then?"

This had been his idea. Out of all of the months we'd been casually seeing each other, we'd never, apparently, gone out for drinks or spent any time outside together. 

He'd claimed that it was messing up his 'method' — I'd had to raise an eyebrow at that 'method'? — and despite me pointing out that I'd been vehemently drunk numerous times in front of him, he wouldn't take no for an answer. 

Apparently, Mark Sloan's method involved wooing someone over drinks. It was his idea to get together on a Friday night. My idea, on the other hand, had been to schedule a date with a ER nurse on the same night.

I was all dressed up for drinks on the other side of Manhattan, a classy espresso martini maybe, a something on the rocks? Instead, I was in one of the shadiest bars on the Lower East Side, a place which Mark swore was the best on the island. I felt oddly over dressed; my outfit was less indie bar chic and more lets have a business lunch— although I was showing a lot of cleavage. 

I leant back heavily in the chair, flicking through the menu with a sharp interest. Across from me, Mark just raised his eyebrows, nursing his scotch. 

I pressed my lips together shortly, not even realising that I hadn't answered his question. 

It was 11pm and my date had been at 8pm. I'd sat in the bar for an hour before just giving up and paying my tab with a fistful of sad, crumpled notes. The bartender had been sympathetic, although I was sure whether it was human decency or the large tip I'd left. It was getting harder and harder for me to understand human behaviour these days.

"What was his name again?" 

Mark, as always, was dressed neat. He was always neat. A neat fucking smart ass who tilted his head again as I ran my fingers through my hair. 

I was partially mad because I'd spent what felt like forever getting ready tonight. I'd curled my hair. I'd made an effort. I'd shaved my legs. I knew, from one look that Mark didn't have to spend forever to look that good.

"Ralph." I said shortly.

Just as I had for the past two hours, I pictured his face in my head. Very cute. Light hair. Strong jawline. He'd been very tongue-in-cheek and I'd been really into it. 

"ER nurse. Seemed like a nice guy until-" I checked the time on my phone. "Two hours ago."

"Ah." Mark tapped his finger against his glass as if struck by a sudden realisation, "The nice guys are the ones that you've got to look out for." 

He'd been quick in his reply but, without missing a beat, I snapped back.

"Good thing you're not nice then," I saluted him. His mouth twitched almost fondly. "Let me guess, you're too much of an asshole to stand a girl up?"