As I stepped through the doorway, I
took my pack of Newport 100's out of my jacket pocket before hanging
it up on the coat rack. I had heard around town that an important man
would be here, and here he was, indeed.
I walked to the bar and placed my
cigarettes on the counter as I ordered a shot of Evan Williams. I
asked the guy next to me if he had a light, but his stubble ridden
face shook his head in the negative direction.
“Shit,” I said before rising up and
retrieving the lighter from the same pocket that my cigarettes were
unearthed from. Before I could make my way back to my seat, a
brunette haired bombshell entered and changed my intentions from
murder to sweet talk.
“Hey, beautiful. I swear I've seen
you somewhere before. You from the South?”
Her eyes lit up like street lights,
face redder than a stop sign as she gave her answer, as smooth as can
be.
“Lived there for a year. With a guy
like you. I know what you're about.”
“A guy like me? No, love, you must be
mistaken. There is no guy like me.”
She chuckled at my answer, and hung her
coat up. As she turned around, she asked how I'd known she was from
the hotter regions of our depleting country.
“All you women, you have that look
about you. I guess you can call it a Sixth Sense.”
“Ok, M Night,” she retorted, “where
are you drinking?”
I directed her to my seat.
“Usually the question is what am I
drinking, but I'll answer both. Hey barkeep, give her what I'm
having.”
She glanced back at me with a sly
smile, her hair dangling just below her brow. “How do you know what
I drink?”
“Vodka and red bull if I had to
guess, but tonight you're drinking whiskey straight.”
“Oh am I really?”
The bartender slid her shot glass in
her vicinity, and I answered her question with a mere head shake.
I had been drinking since 5, and hell,
I had every right to. The hell that I had endured for the past month
a half would drive any rational man to go on a binge. The Knicks were
on the TV in front of the bar counter, but she wasn't interested?
“More of a football girl, are ya?”
“Love the Saints, and yourself?”
“Dallas,” I replied with a chuckle,
“not all it's cracked up to be. More misery than it's worth. But we
did make Brees cry that one time.”
She rolled her eyes at my claim and
demanded another shot from the bartender.
“Typical woman, spending money that
isn't yours.”
“I guess you could say that,” she
said with a look of sarcasm on her face.”
I finally sat down next to her and
scooted my chair up. It was cold in here, cold as an ex lovers heart,
but what could you expect for late November in upstate New York?
“No friends out with you tonight,
beautiful?
“I'm more of a loner,” she
remarked, as her drink came back to her, “fill him up too, lord
knows he needs it.”
“Now who's the one making
assumptions?” I asked.
She tipped her glass back and I got
lost in her eyes. I've never been one to meet a potential love
interest at a bar, but here we were. Both gazing at the autographed
pictures of many Buffalo greats.
“Looks like they get their fair share
of celebrated patronage, huh? Don't think I need to leave a tip.”
“That's just rude. You always leave a
tip. These people work hard for peanuts.”
I laughed before agreeing with her
sentiment.
“I had a waitress argue with me about
Johnny Football a couple months ago and still left a tip. Was only
joking.”
I reached for my pack of cancer and lit
one up in a smoke free atmosphere. Almost as soon as the lighter
touched the front end of my smoke, the bartender came over to contest
with my actions. The burly, grey haired bartender walked over to us
and said I wasn't permitted to do that.
“Ha. Says who? You? The law? If you
have issue with this, you'll never allow me back here after tonight.”
I deaded my cigarette on the counter
top before standing up from the bar stool.
“Nice talking to you, gorgeous.
Another time, yeah?”
The timing wasn't right. I'd be back,
and so would she.
