The Bar

He walked into the bar and ordered a drink.

The bar stretched halfway along one wall, plain and old. Soft elevator music filtered through the smoky haze that sat in the air. The dark décor seemed to be chipped on all its edges; dark wood panelling covered the walls to head height. There was clever lighting that did not seem to shine on anything above the top of the panelling. Round drop shades, like those found above grand full-sized pool tables, hung down in a straight line in the middle of the room.

There were booths, one after the other, along two walls curving in a horseshoe at the very end of the room. Square heavy tables fixed to the wall at one end and square heavy, bench seats with high backs and faded studded red leather upholstery, around them. There were high back chairs separating each table, giving each area a sense of privacy.

An old, and once prestigious, men’s club, now suffering like the old members’ arteries and liver sclerosis, as faded as their wives complexions.

He selected a seat in the corner of the dimly lit room. He sipped his scotch, straight, a double, no ice. He sat, rested his head against the high-backed chair. His hair needed hair cutting, he could feel it on his ears. He ran his hand through it, the hair gel had let go, he was damned if he could master that stuff. His face twitched. He exhaled loudly took hold of the glass in his, leathery, hand and downed half of its contents. He put the glass down with a clunk when he was finished. With a weary struggle, he took a packet of cigarettes out of the pocket of his black woollen coat, which he was sitting on awkwardly. He felt a pain in his hip as he twisted around to free the black wool. He selected one of the filterless cigarettes and tossed the packet onto the table. It slid across the wooden tabletop, for a moment, he thought, it was going to slide right off the other side. He lit his cigarette tossing the lighter after the cigarettes. He sucked hard on the brown filter, rested his head against the back of the chair again, closing his eyes once more, as he blew a thick stream of smoke towards the pressed metal ceiling.

It had been a busy day, time for peace, time for quiet contemplation. The bar was empty, as it was most nights. He dissected the day with a few chugs of the best, before he headed home. People came here to drink alone, mostly, or perhaps in pairs, but always in privacy, which the booths allowed. He finished the last of his drink and ordered another by clicking his fingers in the air to signal the waiter.

The red-haired woman picked up her drink and began moving toward him. A checked skirt, grey blouse, blue jacket, no stockings and a pair of those strapless high heals that look near on impossible to stand in, let alone attempt to walk. Her red curly hair was clearly died, post menopause henna. Her sagging breasts were exposed, more than she would have liked. A button that had come undone on her blouse, she was oblivious. Her fat rear wobbled, as her thick, white legs, with tortured ankles and flaking skin on the heels, took short, staccato, steps. Her ankles miraculously kept their position a top of the high shoes with no visible means of support, as she moved across the room.

He heels clicked across the wooden floor; handbag, carry bags and coat all bunched up in one hand, leading with her drink in the other hand. Her blouse separated more, with the struggle with all she was carrying. The faded cream lace bodice of her slip, exposed.

“Is this seat taken?” Her voice squeaked slightly as she spoke. She blew the fringe out of her eyes.

He rubbed his face, opened both eyes wide, as if he needed two eyes to take the complete vision of her in. They eyed each other in silence.

“Um…no,” he said, as he realised that an answer was required. He grunted more than he spoke. There was an unwillingness in his tone, even he could hear that.

“Do you mind if I sit here…then?” She sounded tired.

“No…no I don’t.”

She flung all she was carrying sideways across the seat next to her, as she sat heavily. She rummaged in her bag, pulling out a Glomesh cigarette case and lighter. The top snapped open and she took out a cigarette.

“Would you like one?”

“Um…no.

The case clunked on the table top, when she put it down. She puckered her lips, with the cigarette sticking straight out from the middle of her mouth, as she flicked the lighter. It wouldn’t light. Flick, flick, flick, flick, flick. She rummaged in her bags, with the sound of shimmying plastic.

“Sorry.” She pulled another lighter from her bag. “I’ve got another one. It’s okay.” Flick. Flick. The flame glowed yellow. She puffed fiercely.

She smiled. She glanced down. She turned sideways and buttoned up her blouse. She turned back. She clutched her throat.

He again closed his eyes; he was retreating from her, he was retreating from the world.

“I’m not disturbing you… am I?” she said, more as a statement than a question. His eyes cracked open again, almost despite him. “Tell me if I am.” She smiled nervously. She puffed her cigarette, blowing the smoke in big gestures.

He gazed at her, rubbed his eyes slowly and exhaled. He didn’t want to engage, but felt he had to say something. She reminded him of his wife. He couldn’t help but smile.

“I’ve been married for thirty years.”

 “I just want to sit and drink my drink, love,” she said. She laughed. “I wasn’t proposing happily ever after.”

“Just as well,” he said.

“Just as well?” she repeated.

“Because there is no such thing.”

She raised her hand to her mouth and sucked on her cigarette. “There is happy… and there is ever after…” she said.

“But never the two shall meet,” he said.

She picked up her drink took a decent chug. “And never the two shall meet,” she said. She laughed. She puffed on her cigarette.

“It’s not my first rodeo,” he said.

“Darl,” she said. “It’s not my tenth rodeo, let me tell you.”

“The secret is to just hang on,” he said.

“The secret is to know when to let go,” she said.

“And I guess that is where we will always differ,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “You can teach an old dog new tricks.”

“You reckon, do you?”

“Yeah, sure,” she said.

“It’s been my experience that old dogs don’t want to learn new tricks,” he said. “That old dogs are very happy with the tricks they know.”

“You’ve just got to use the right treat,” she said.

“The right treat?” he repeated. “And what would be the right treat?”

“Whatever it is that makes your old dog sit up and beg.” She laughed. She took a long drag on her cigarette.

“Sit up and beg, you say.”

“Sit up and beg,” she repeated.

“Now that’s just dirty talk.”

“You catch on fast,” she said.

“They have always said that I’m good at thinking on my feet.”

“They have always said I am good at the dirty talk.” She puffed on her cigarette while she held his gaze.

They gazed at each other. 

A silence fell down between them.

She smiled.

He watched her smile.

“Should we order another drink?”

“Yes.”