New chapters up for ya'll:
The afternoon drug its way toward early evening, and I tried to stay busy. I was in the middle of cutting up lime wedges for the evening shift when the door opened, the strip of bells attached to it by a cord tinkling lightly. It was the hip, polished guy from the other night, the one so full of smarm and pseudo-spiritual pap. He sat down at the bar, gliding movements that took him from standing to sitting in one fluid motion. Placing his hands lightly atop the raised lip of the worn bar, his fingertips touched the flat part as if he were about to play the piano. He looked at me in silence. I looked back. I knew what he was doing. He could wait.
After a long minute of an unwinnable staring contest I asked “Yes?” in a light singsong, drawing the word out for several seconds, hoping it came off as cheerful.
He pursed his lips in what was almost a kissing motion, tapping his fingers on the bar.
Billie brought up a drink check and I walked over to the waiter’s station. One margarita, rocks, salt. One frozen marg. Two strawberry frozen margs. Two club sodas. One oj. And one Grey Goose dirty martini with extra olives. I placed the martini in front of the immaculately dressed man who’d watched my every move, smirking when he raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement.
“Thank you,” he said, elegantly, and took a sip.
“You are most welcome,” I said, mimicking his tone. He didn’t smile. “So, where are your friends?” I asked.
“I gave them the night off,” he answered. “They’re a little too hyphy for what I have in mind this evening. This is a solo trip.”
“How brave of you,” I said, a little more sarcastically then I intended.
“A truly luscious woman will make a man do all sorts of heroic things, don’t you think?” he said with what he obviously believed would show up as smoldering charm.
Instead every last receptor in my body pulled away from him, repulsed.
“Why are you afraid of me?” he asked, eating the olives one by one before starting in on the alcohol.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You most certainly are.”
“Am not, am not, am not,” I said in a snotty-little-girl voice.
He shrugged and motioned for more olives.
“Why would you say that?” I asked, dropping a half dozen olives and a slosh of cloudy brine into his glass.
“Because you retract your energy when you experience the extension of mine.”
“What is it with you and your fascinating comments on my energy?” I said as I reached into my tip cup for the cigarette pack. “Seriously, share,” I said and lit a cigarette. “You feel the need to give me a love massage? Spin a story of our entwined destinies? Please,” I said. “I’ve done the Bangladesh-granolahead route. There was nothing there but bad bean products and people who ate fucking clouds for breakfast.”
“And gurus who sexually abuse their students,” he said.
My stomach did a swan dive into an bottomless abyss. “What did you say?” I asked.