Bar hawk

He was in his fifties.
When he sat,
On the red and gold checked bar stool,
Parts of his buttocks rolled off the edge.
As a long distance coach driver,
He'd spent too long behind the wheel.

He politely checked the seat was free,
And when I responded,
He recognised a fellow Brit.

We smiled and chat began.
As I put the book down,
On the black and gold flecked marble bar,
He apologised for commandeering my time.
He was the first that night to do it,
But but not the last of the trip.

We chatted politely at first,
And eventually,
Particularly in my case,
Animatedly.

He seemed, like me,
A stranger in town,
Someone who lived the life of a perpetual stranger,
With no one to call at home.
No one would really miss us,
If we disappeared for a month.

Then the compliments began to increase,
And he said, "The answer is no, isn't it".

Just checking,
I asked what the question was,
But did mention that if he had to ask,
Then yes, the answer was probably no.

The question was, "My room?"
The answer was definitely no.
A definite "No".
He followed it with,
"I'm a bad person.
I've ruined the conversation.
You think I'm a dirty old man."

"They're your words
Not mine," I uttered,
As I got up from the stool,
"But I'm leaving now...
And no, you're not invited."

I watched my back,
As I got in the lift,
Reaching my room,
In no time at all.
Wondering which one of us,
Misread the situation.