The Beverage Manager

by james subudhi

We sat next to each other in our silence through two beers. I read. She drank and stared into the space between conversations. We gave periodic glances, our eyes swinging down like pendulums, at the blackberries in our laps, as if to give each other the sign that we were wanted, connected, not alone. We were alone.

She was at the bar to drink good beer and to prove to herself and her husband that she still had the looks to be hit on by a younger man. I sat at the bar to read and hit on women. We were a perfect match.

I suggested the Spatan to break the silence.

We dissolved each other’s insecurities in a warm solution of commonality, self-affirmation, flirting and intellectual indulgence.

I gave her a younger age. She gave me her hand to hold gently. I offered to play her a song. She gave me her business card.

Our conversation danced and tip toed on the thin silver back of the ring with a diamond on the other side facing her palm.

She was either too drunk to notice that I knew or wanted me to know to have a sense of security to fall back on in case our feet slipped it off her finger, her nail the edge of her comfort.

The ring turned up. The glass emptied. She told me she had to get up early in the morning. Somewhere in the distance a pumpkin carriage began to rot.