Two comfortable strangers meet at a bar. Just as they'd done every week for almost a year. He arrives early and takes his place in a corner booth. The low light creates shadows that he easily hides behind so he can watch her enter. She's late, but she's always late. So that means she's on time. As she bustles in through the heavy wooden doorway out of the cool air, she shakes off the frigid temperature. The shock of her electric blue wool coat blends in nicely with the phosphorescent surroundings. As he watches her from the shadows, a small smile tucked away deep within the corner of his mouth. He loved the way her dark coils were now lighter for the coming spring as if dipped in honey. He didn't understand how, but it brought even more warmth to her smile. And recently, it seemed he needed more to battle against the cold. But this is something he would never share with her, maybe... unless tonight could be different.
This was their routine, a ritual of sorts, each playing their part perfectly. Walking in, she looked to the corner in which he sat. Never once acknowledging him. Surveying the room as she looked for someone, but knew he was already waiting. Her heart would always briefly skip the moment she noticed the familiar figure in her peripheral, but she would never tell him. She would then take her space at the bar, sitting on the far left, then place her bag on the seat directly to the right. This let everyone else know she was expecting company.
They would sit for hours, sometimes past last call, past closing, but then again sometimes not. Sometimes in loud boisterous conversations, sometimes in quiet secret discussions, sometimes not saying anything at all, their shoulders dancing between wanting to touch and being afraid to touch. They would argue about jazz. He had wondered if she had ever heard his music, but he would never ask. She often wondered if he would ever ask her about his jazz albums. She had found one, years before at a thrift store for fifty cents, but she would never tell him she actually got it for a quarter. They spoke about work, their exes, politics, and basketball. He would call her a traitor because she would always cheer too loudly for the San Antonio Spurs. She said it wasn't the team but the player she followed, and wherever Manu Ginobili was, she was there too. He thought it was a solid strategy, but he'd never tell her.
He loved her smile the most. The way she would lightly touch his arm when she was in a passionate debate, a way to connect to the listener as she spoke. How her hair would curl softly at the back of her neck when she would wear it up. He wondered about that downy piece of flesh and what it would feel like beneath his lips. He wanted to tell her; thought maybe she hadn't been told enough how beautiful she looked in every color. But yellow, yellow against the lovely, bronzed tone of her skin was his favorite.
After taking her seat, she would finally begin to peel off her layers. Gloves, then scarf, then finally her jacket. Tonight, she wore yellow, he took it as a green light. Again, she would survey the small room. Ancient stuffed booths, the red velvet she was sure had once been lush and vibrant. After years of friction against bodies as they slid past, they had been worn thin. The cobbled brick walls barely allowed any of the lighting to bounce off the stone, somehow swallowing all the brightness within. This created a cavernous environment that often blared lively notes into the street outside. As she soaked in her surroundings, she made sure never to allow her gaze to stray too long into the corner in which he sat. Then he would know she was waiting for him, and their game would be over, and she hadn't quite finished playing, at least not yet.
She would always order a shot, tonight though she ordered two. She would then order a Lambrusco. The deep, rich garnet of the wine glistened against the glass as she placed it in front of the spot he would soon occupy. She longed to hear his laugh. How he would draw it out absurdly long at times. Then, as if to reignite it, he would start again getting caught in a loop that would almost bring them both to tears. She loved his eyes, the winged liner so expertly angled. How he would flutter his dark exaggerated lashes flirtatiously when he was being an ass. Calculating exactly how coy he needed to be to get himself out of trouble. Most of all, she loved the way her name left him in a low rumble as they whispered closely. She had wondered how her name would sound falling from his lips in countless situations. But she would never tell him, she was sure he had received these adulations far too many times and he didn't need her to further boost his ego.
After downing her first lemon drop, he would send her over a drink, but she would refuse it. She would then send him over an old fashioned with a shot of cinnamon whisky and two cherries, light ice. He would accept the drink, but it wasn't for him. The deep amber of the liquor always reminded her of his eyes as they would gleam brightly against the incandescent bar lights. The last step was for her to remove her bag from the seat, signaling for him to come and sit with her. But as he sat watching her, she didn't remove her bag. Their dance had ended. But it seemed the routine had changed, or maybe a new one had begun.
Taking her second shot, she began to worry; he hadn't made it over to her yet. By this time, they usually had already been on their third conversation of the evening, but here she sat alone. Turning around once more in her seat, she strained not to stare into his corner. Trying unsuccessfully to convince herself, she only cared about the drink she had ordered that was now at his table and like him not with her. Without a beat, she saw his figure shift into the light. 'Fuck, he had caught her staring.' But he smiled softly, and she couldn't help but reflect it back to him, making sure he knew he had been missed.
Smoothing his dark jacket, he picked up her glass. Watching him stand she had to dampen the excitement she was sure beamed all over her face. His suits were impeccable. This one in black allowed him to blend into those darkened spaces he tried to hide behind. The red pinstripes so finely lined all the seams matching up expertly. His shirt was always unbuttoned maybe a button or two too far exposing the soft trail of hair on his chest and she wondered how far it went down.
"You always send this over. You know I don't drink this shit." He smiled, handing her the drink as she took it from him greedily.
"That's because this drink is mine. Besides, it always looks so pretty as you bring it over to me." Her taunting tone had always got his attention in more ways than one, he loved that sound.
"You ever gonna let me buy you a drink?" He leaned into her, taking in as much of her sweet perfume as he could.
Not noticing his closeness, she spun around in her seat to meet his gaze. His lips nearly ghosted hers. "No, because then you'll want something." Again, that taunting tone of hers sent a shiver down the nape of his neck.
"But you got me a drink." He tried to reason with her, fingers tapping on the stem of his glass.
"Yes, because I want something." She began to fiddle with the straw in her drink, her eyes refusing to meet his.
"Really?" Deeply he purred, leaning into her again.
"Yes. I want you to finally sit your ass down and come have a drink with me." She looked up at him giving an exasperated huff, waiting for him and her drink to finally join her. The ice had already begun to melt, watering down the alcohol it contained.
"Well, I would have been over sooner, but you forgot to move your bag."
Looking at the seat next to her, he was right. She had forgotten that last step, he hadn't forgotten, she had. At that moment she hated her purse, she had hated herself for making him wait... for making her wait. "I'm so sorry. Come on and get your fizzy Kool-Aid before it gets too much warmer. I can order you another one if you want."
"Oh, so now you'll want something else from me."
"Maybe." She smiled.
Picking up her bag he took the space it once occupied and started rifling through. "You're already two shots in?" He questioned. 'It had always been just one, why did tonight, of all nights, have to be different?'
"It's been a really tough week, Prince. Give me a break." She whined.
"Nia, it's Tuesday."
"I know." She said exhausted, resting her head on his shoulder. "Hey get your fingers outta there." She playfully slapped his hand away from her drink.
"It's mine anyway." He brought one of the cherries to his lips, sucking the whisky from his thumb before he consumed the bright red fruit.
She hated him. Hated how he could be so elegant and tempting all at the same time. Hated how you never really knew if he was actually flirting or if he was just playing to see how much he could get away with. "I know it's yours that's why I ordered it, but I don't know where your fingers have been."
"Been waiting over there for you to move his big ass bag. What you got in here anyway?" Again, he started to rummage through. "Why can't you carry one of those cute little ones?"
"Hey, there's a cute little one in there. It's just too small to hold all my essentials." Nia watched as he pulled out her cute little clutch matching perfectly to the yellow of her top.
"Essentials huh?" Suddenly he started to fish out the "essentials'' lining them up perfectly on the wooden tabletop of the bar. A shell, a broken crayon, a half-eaten cracker, and three Pokémon cards.
She looked at the sad menagerie knowing there was way more hidden in that bag, but he had stopped at 4, making his point. "Don't you steal those cards now. If I don't give them back tomorrow Trenton is gonna be pissed."
"Placing bets with snacks at recess again?" He chuckled at the confiscated items that always fell to the bottom of her purse.
"Here gimmie." She blushed at the bizarre nature of her career choice. Taking the bag from his grasp she collected the random assortment and tossed them back into her bag. The Pokémon cards were tucked carefully into a corner pocket. Slinging the bag over the back of her chair she turned to him. "I found a lizard today... a lizard. It's March and a kid had a lizard in his pocket. Where did it even come from?"
"Your kids are too wild." He chuckled. He loved when she spoke about her class of first graders. So many moving parts and personalities at the same time. No wonder she was increasing her liquor consumption.
"Come on, they aren't that bad." She would always end up defending them. "Like you've never got caught with anything weird when you were a kid. I will check your pockets, Prince."
"There's definitely not a lizard in there, Nia." Again, his tone would slip deeply as he flirted with her. She never seemed to notice though, or maybe she had and didn't care.
"I can always double-check." She said so nonchalantly before taking another sip of her drink. She didn't realize quickly enough what she was thinking had actually made it out of her mouth. 'Damn.'
Narrowing his eyes at her he mentally debated with himself but still didn't give a response, only a small chuckle as if he had just realized something but wouldn't share the information.
Suddenly the out-of-tune squawk of a trumpet brought their attention to the stage.
"That's not right." Nia shook her head, shoulders inching up to fend off the sound.
"That's not right either." The unmistakable torture was supposed to be fluid in a progression of chords. The short choppy squeals too early and the wrong tones. He had never heard Wynton Marsalis played like this no matter what personal liberties were taken. Suddenly as they both realized their mistake, they looked at each other and groaned. "Amateur Night."
"We can get outta here." Prince turned to her hoping her answer would be yes. This night seemed to be having too many missteps to count. His vision fell apart before him, and he questioned moving forward. Though he swore when her dark eyes lifted to meet his he saw that she had wanted him as badly as he wanted her, he wondered if she would ever tell him.
"You just sat down. If we can sit through polka night, we can sit through this." She desperately tried the excuse hoping they would stay. She just wanted a little more time with him before they parted ways until next week.
"I can take you home." Trying to shield their conversation, he leaned into her as the trumpet solo became almost unbearable.
Grabbing the bartender Nia ordered another shot. Maybe the more she drank the less amateur, Amateur Night would become. As it was placed in front of her, Prince swiftly took the glass and downed the yellow liquid.
"Rude." Nia smiled, "You ain't even finished that one." She pointed to the tall glass of wine he had barely touched, wasting her money.
"I'll be your driver. Come on, lemme take you home." His voice began to dip dangerously, deep and seductive. That tone as it fell from his lips always seemed to hold too many secrets.
"It's fine Prince, I can take a cab. I've done it before you know."
"Good to know. But I don't think you understand me." He breathed a quick huff in frustration, a slight flush on his cheeks from the shot of vodka he just downed. Turning her eyes to meet his, he wanted to make sure she heard every word as they tumbled out. "I... wanna... take... you... home." This phrase left his lips slowly and deliberately as if he wanted her to read between the lines.
"Where?" She questioned as if an afterthought.
"My home." Raising his hands to his chest, he wasn't sure exactly what she wasn't getting. Usually, she was a smart ass woman but at this moment he began to question. He would definitely never tell her though.
"What?" Another question fell as if creating a barrier to his goal.
"Now I know you ain't that drunk." He shook his head. The short dark curls that framed his face bounced in disbelief. "Come on, Teach, do I really have to spell it out for you?" Rummaging through her bag he pulled out a pen and wrote on the napkin that once was beneath his drink. He turned to her without saying a word and arched an eyebrow as if demanding an answer.
Reading over the words he just wrote she was skeptical. Three simple words were written on the thin paper. "Fuck Me?" a heart dotting the question mark. There was only one option below for her to choose from... YES.
"You're joking." Tilting her head down she eyed him trying to understand.
Leaning into her ear he whispered, "Or I could fuck you." She had understood him perfectly.
"But your... and I'm just." Her thoughts began to create a whirlwind, as she tried to put all the pieces together. 'This had to be a joke. He couldn't really... could he?'
"Just what?" He questioned. "You're beautiful, Nia. You have great taste in jazz, terrible taste in men, present company excluded." He reached out etching the half-moons on her nail beds. This is one thing he hadn't accounted for, having to convince her. "Your smile brightens up even this shithole."
"Shhhhh..." She whispered as the bartender made his rounds.
"I love the way your heel always slightly slips off your right foot when you really feel the rhythm." She began to blush thinking he had watched her so closely. Tonight, though as the musicians struggled to even find the beat both her heels never wavered.
"How the fabric of your skirt presses tightly against your thighs when you sit." His finger moved up the seam pressing lightly against the fullness. "You want more?"
"Yeah. Go on." Again, she smiled listening as he listed item after item. Of course, she wanted to hear more.
"You remember when your ex came sniffing around. I thought what if a Tuesday came and you were gone, what if you didn't show. What if I never got the chance to say... so I decided I needed to tell you."
"That was nearly two months ago, Prince."
"You're patient." Again, he added another item to the list. "I had to make a plan." A boyish grin formed as he thought of his once brilliant plan, wanting to sweep her off her feet within seconds of walking through the door.
"Things really didn't work out like you wanted them to tonight, did they?" Her eyes lowered in apology. She thought of her drinks, her purse, her being late well later than usual, and the music... or well if you could actually call this music.
"No, they didn't. All that matters is how it ends though." Taking her chin softly in his hand, his lips brushed against the softness of her cheek, his thin mustache bristling the skin.
She gave a quick gasp at his closeness. Unintended a soft low grunt escaped his lips at the sound of her breath catching. This sound let her know exactly how well his plan was still working. Quickly snatching the pen, she frantically circled the yes on the napkin leaving a few extra checks for good measure.
"Good! Gimme your keys, let's go." Finally, he had received the answer he was longing for.
"But..." It was a false start, and his shoulders rounded.
"Get your coat, come on." Tugging slightly at the bottom of her skirt he tried to get her back on track.
"But..." Again, she stalled.
"The answer is still yes, isn't it?"
"Most definitely." She shook her head thinking of all the times she had thought of this exact moment, she couldn't believe he had been thinking it too.
His eyes grew wide mischievously, tongue rounding his bottom lip, biting down the words that almost came out. Knowing there would be far more time and far less public places for those words later. Still, he tugged impatiently on her skirt, his finger slipped to feel the softness of her calf.
"Then what's the question?"
His hand lightly on her leg she could barely think let alone speak. "The tab...", was all she managed to squeak out.
"It's already been paid." Finally, he was able to buy her that drink... three actually.
A/N: This was an original idea and title from drewswreckastow He really helped try to get my ass in gear over this past summer to write and get my shit together. I am in awe of his output and artistic endeavors. Literally always creating, and I find it so inspiring.