The Cocktail - A short story from the 'Images from the life of a social sputum' collection
She reminded him of someone he used to love. Or maybe still does? That was the biggest problem.
She’s beautiful, definitely. Perfect smile, glistening eyes, tasteful makeup. Wonderful hands with long fingers. Skinny, many would say unwomanly, but that’s not the case. There’s an obvious frailty about her that gives her that traditionally female manner.
She’s behind the bar. He knows her name, knows of her from a context through a person, but she has no idea who he is. And how would she, when she lets hundreds and thousands of people through her mind. If she remembered every tenth person, she’d lose it in a matter of days.
She smokes. He didn’t like that at all. She flirts for tips. He liked that even less. Fuck it. He’s attracted to her - for a couple of reasons, three beers are gone and there’s no going back. Luckily, he has a perfectly obvious and justified reason to come up to her – he has to order a drink, of course. He never would have otherwise.
He’s standing at the bar, waiting. He uses the time to, completely protected by the current situation, look at her. Even if someone noticed he’s staring (and who even gives a shit about him), it’s acceptable because he has to keep track. The group of people standing in front of him suddenly disperses. Unexpected circumstance. He thought he had more time. That’s what you get for getting drunk, dumbass. You don’t have it under control. He has to say something at that exact moment – something that will, one the one hand, sound completely adequate and cool if she doesn’t deem him special, but also have a certain connotation if she’s interested after all and somehow knows who he is just as he knows her. Now or never.
‘I’d like something no one’s ordered tonight.’
Oh boy. This one could go either way. He’s not sober enough to be able to objectively assess. She’s looking at him blankly, confused. The pause lasts a few seconds, but it seems as though the event is taking place near a black hole which is inducing a time distortion. Suddenly his brain kicks in, the devious cunt, and starts displaying all the undesirable scenarios at the speed of light.
Finally, she smiles. In a pretty way, teeth and all. ‘How about a cocktail?’
Thank the cosmos. What a relief. With a smile, he agrees and tells her whichever.
On his way back to the spot by the wall, where he was standing prior to the whole endeavor, he notices a few more people are drinking the same Cuba Libre. He can tell by the lime slice and the straw. To hell with it, though. The smile looked genuine.
And she makes one hell of a Cuba Libre.