the lovers (a vignette)
a series i began to celebrate/commemorate the important people in my life from the eyes of an anonymous bartender. titles/themes derived from the 22 major arcana tarot cards.
The day we met it was raining like the world was ending. She was pure poise, lithe and lean. Smirk swam in her cat eyes. The rain had soaked her wispy black bangs, and so they glistened with a sheen like raven feathers. Her cheekbones were high and angular, and her tall stature made her presence regal, imperial.
Though an impossible task, I tried not to notice her as I stirred an Old-Fashioned, but we locked eyes for a second that felt like a minute, and I forgot where I was, who I was, and what I was doing. By the time I recovered my senses and recaptured my coolness, the bourbon was watery and I had to start again.
She hung up her overcoat, inconspicuously checked her makeup in her phone camera, and walked up to the bar. The dim golden light of the room cast shadows across her features, and all I could think about was how pretty she was.
“Welcome in, what can I do for you?”
“Hi,” she smiled, raindrops glistening on her face. “I was on my way to dinner, but the rain got so bad that I had to duck in here,” she laughed lightly. She had skin the color of orange blossom honey.
“It looks horrible out there. Hopefully, it clears up soon. When’s your reservation?”
“7:00,” stealing a glance at the time on her phone.
“One drink can’t hurt?”
“Sureee…” she said, prolonging the word and widening her eyes roguishly.
“And even if it doesn’t stop pouring, you’ll have a booze jacket to keep you warm.”
We talked, and I discovered that she was Canadian, had attended university in Arizona, and now worked as a 3D animation artist at a studio in New York. She had an easygoing nature, one that was electrified by levity and playful nihilism. She smelled like vanilla, and it mixed with the dark liquor fumes of the bar, and I felt giggly-drunk. Her laugh was golden.
regret often blooms from misalignment between values and actions, particularly in love
It is rare to see, but sometimes there are those who are vastly beautiful but believe themselves the opposite. There are those who are lovable and desirable but can only suffer thoughts of shame and reproach. They are afflicted by the debilitating panic that they are objects incapable of attracting and capturing real affection. Hardly arising naturally, this anxiety is instilled by insecure and loathsome others, who seek to drag down those far more beautiful to their own wallowing impotence. This girl was such a specimen, and the thought of her past treatment welled up unbelievable anger in me. All I wanted was to reach into her mind and burn the black spot away, for her to behold the same craving I felt when I looked at her. For to see her is to want her. To hold her is to protect her. To kiss her is to love her.
I was lost in those thoughts as she spoke. A peal of thunder shook me from my reverie.
“Shit. It’s not getting any better,” she said as she looked toward the window. She ran her hands through her hair, fixing her wayward bangs. I noticed her nails were tiger-eye black, and they gleamed like obsidian arrowheads.
“Maybe you weren’t meant to go to that dinner, huh?”
The ghost of a smile flashed on her face. “Mmhmm, maybe, yeah.”
I knew then she was mine. I would drink up her sweetness and play in her mud-colored eyes, and I would warm up on the hearth of her chest. I would hold her in my arms and be held in hers, and I would thrill in the sharpness of her nails on my back, and I would press her slim, perfect body under mine. She would be my geisha, my painter, my model, my muse.
The rain suddenly stopped, and with it, the din of the downpour against the window so that the room seemed silent. “Oh wow,” she looked back to the window, “Do you think it’ll come back soon?”
“I’m not sure.” All I wanted was for the storm to return and never end so that the conversation with this beautiful and sweet girl would never end, and the rain would keep falling and falling, and like Noah, we would be the only ones in the world.
“I should go.” She seemed reluctant, at least.
“Ah, shame. You’re fun to talk to.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.” She took a cocktail napkin and looked at me, waiting. “You have a pen?”
I couldn’t keep myself from grinning, and obliged her.
She scribbled something down and placed the napkin on the bartop. “Call me.” She smiled.
She put on her jacket, pushed the door open, and melted into the blackish silver of a misty twilight.