I’ve commented before on how the most wonderful moments of inspiration can strike me at the worst possible time. This is one of those. Here’s the longhand version of the text message I found myself ‘writing’ on the train Friday morning.
Delicate footsteps echoed from black peep-toes in the still air as she crossed the floor and I smiled wryly to myself. Taking the cocktail shaker from the shelf, I loaded it up with ice and the prerequisites (and a little extra) for her cocktail of choice. Stepping across to the fridge, I take a chilled martini glass and decant the shaker’s contents. I push the glass in front of her as she slides onto the stool, elbows to the bar. The twinkle in her eye induces a smile.
“Orange peel or lime, babe?”
Swapping the dishwasher trays over, my eye surveys the bar. It’s deserted. When was the last time it was just us here? I don’t remember. Filling two shot glasses with Zhivago’s Revenge, I place one beside her as beryl eyes fill with misgiving.
My mouth moves to sound, but I stop myself from saying anything that will ruin the moment. Breathe, Stu, just breathe and enjoy the silence. Oh, I’m certain I will be drunk tonight, but it will not be courtesy of the consumption of copious amounts of alcohol.
“I can’t find the words to tell you just how much you’ve been missed these last months, dear one.”
The reply is cool, but no less earnest. “I’ve missed something awfully myself.”
She eyes me over the glass. You can do that as much as you like. Contrary to popular belief, I’m quite a shy little boy. During moments like that I wish I wasn’t quite so. Ordinarily a kiss would ensue, but that privilege was forfeited. It is something she will have to regain.
Jo comes in from the public bar with a bottle of Triple Sec in one hand and the bottle of flavoured vodka I requested in the other. She has that matronly, slightly frumpish, look on her face that says “Stu, be careful, you know this stuff’s $80 a bottle, wholesale.” Then she noted that I had company. The look changes to a disdainful “Oh, so you’re out to impress some girl, huh? Explains it. I hope she’s worth it.”
I resent that she feels I still possess a cavalier – but hardly misogynist – attitude toward women. I used to go home with so many of them because I was the only guy who remained sober enough to stand. And for the record, she’s worth every damned cent.
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The index finger of her small hand caresses the back of mine as yet more condensation dribbles down the stem of the glass and into an incomplete circle of small beads on the bar. It’s illustrative of how warm this late January night is and how long we have been sat here just talking. Well, she’s been talking; I’ve been lost in wonder. I’m tempted to forget everything, take her hand, and gently lead her away from here, but it’s only a temptation.
Perched delicately on the stool in her little black dress and sparse makeup (only enough to accentuate her highlights), she looks painfully gorgeous, delectable even, as a finely manicured finger traced the rim of the glass. I’m glad to be on the opposite side of the bar. Clasping her bare hands tenderly, our fingers knit together imperfectly. “You understand why I can’t, don’t you: at least not tonight.” My grip is relinquished as I turn and reach for the flavoured vodka and attach the 45ml precision pourer. “Another?”
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Three o’clock Sunday morning. I was supposed to lock up almost two hours ago, but at this time nobody’s gonna be coming in, and it’s only us to come out, so … to hell with locking up on time.
She picks up her martini glass and moves from the stool towards the couches. “Come sit by me.” I indulge in the motion of her curves as she sashays to the black leather couches by the window and sits. Hesitantly, I follow as a coy smile cracks my face. You can’t take my eyes off you, nor do I want to.
To be continued …