I
Her day begins as the whole city prepares to retire. It’s six in the evening when she stirs in her bed, and is startled by the persistent beep of her alarm clock that breaks her long spell of uninterrupted nightmare. Her unsteady hand reaches out, groping in the semi darkness till her long clumsy fingers hit the knob to turn it off. She drowsily lingers on for a while longer, in her cosy leather-bound couch. The delay is deliberate, somewhat. There’s no specific reason as such. Just that she’s been feeling pretty rundown over something. Sitting at the edge of her bed she watches the sun slowly sink amid the blackening trees and the dark violet distances. The dusk is now fast deepening. There is a curious look on her face. Suddenly, she laughs. And she laughs again. She laughs at the things that had happened last evening. She laughs at the things that lay ahead.
That’s Miss Martini, the receptionist at MG’s Pub. It is an unreasonably attractive public house with dwarf plants in pots and long striped blinds of lemon yellow and white. A flight of steps from the street, runs down to meet the front door of Miss Martini’s tiny two room suite.
There’s something about that flight of steps - something about the quietude and quaintness of the house that rouses romantic fancy.
At forty Miss Martini is pretty good at what she does!
II
It is just five minutes before eleven on this Tuesday evening, and the bar is abnormally quiet. This quiet time is undoubtedly the lull before the hurricane strikes. Miss Martini has been at work almost four hours and she’s only seen few other clients besides the one she is presently serving. The other two have been regulars, brooding and cursing intermittently for being denied their last drink. But it is time to close. Miss Martini muses as she looks at the young and healthy specimen of muscular maturity who has just picked up his drink and is now sitting at the far end of the bar counter near the tailgate. He’s dressed in purple jogging shorts, a green headband and a white T-shirt. His bare right foot is resting on the foot-rest and the other one dangling from the tall stool that he is perched on. “I’ll give you five more minutes, young man,” she says as she walks up to the youngster, grinning mysteriously at him. “The name is Cherian. Joe Cherian” He looks up at her with almost ogling eyes, as he speaks - “Well, well! It seems like you’re in some great hurry.” “Hmmm…well, aren’t you? It’s midnight already. “I won’t hang around too long. Don’t worry!” He gives her a derisive smile. “My buddy should be back any moment. He says you work here all the time Miss…..” “Martini” she prompts rather impishly. “O boy! His eyes drop to her lapel, lingering an instant too long on her bosom. “Miss Martini?” “Yup, I’m afraid I’m here all of my working hours.” “But you don’t look the kind who belongs here.” It is a comment Miss Martini is accustomed to hearing. “It’s the excitement of setting new trends,” she says breezily. “Keeps one exuberant and stimulated.. Joe is now looking at Miss Martini in an entirely different fashion taking in her riotous curls reaching past her shoulders, the delicate features devoid of any make-up, the naturally rosy lips, the warm brown eyes, and the graceful curves not quite hidden by her apron. He likes what he sees. “So, Miss Martini, you ever get any time away from this joint, like, say, for food?” His voice is husky, his tone, suggestive. “I know this great Italian restaurant just over on the other side of the MG Street. I’d love to take you there for lunch.” Miss Martini raises her eyebrows and smiles at him again, the smile, not a coquettish one, this time. “Once in a long while they let me out, and when they do, I tend to spend time with my family.” It is Joe’s turn to give her a rueful grin. “Can’t blame him. He’s a lucky man, your husband. Tell him, I said so.” “I surely would’ve, if I had one.” The night watchman interrupts them. There is urgency in his voice as he reports the gate-crashing by some rowdies. He impelsMiss Martini to shut the entrance door at once, almost yanking the youngster by the arm. “Easy, easy brother! But that won’t be necessary. I’m leaving anyway.” Joe wrenches his hand free from the watchman’s grip. Miss Martini gathers her keys while giving some last-minute instructions to the guard and heads for the stairwell behind the bar counter. “If you want to stay away from harm, stay in for a while. There’s an exit in the basement,” She says over her shoulder as she leaves. Adrenaline rushes through Joe’s veins as he follows her descending down the spiral staircase.
