The Lost American

Chapter Nine: A Clean, Well Lighted Place

"So enlighten me.. how long have you actually known each other?" Bam sipped at a dark brew, strewn across one half of the booth they sat in, watching with tired eyes at the Fin and his 'fiance'.

Ville's arm rested on Micheal-ann's body, who had almost immediately passed out at the table, having yawned the entire last few hours they'd went about Helsinki with Bam. Her head rested softly on his thigh, her hands folded to her chest. Ville's long black pea coat covered her sleeping form.

He wasn't surprised either considering the past few nights she'd been mumbling about the exchange program she was going to start, pouring herself over books and papers that had such small print and big theory's that Ville had felt his head spin when he attempted to read just a few paragraphs.

Moving his arm slowly, Ville moved a strand of hair that had fallen across Micheal's face and tucked it behind her ear before replacing his hand to where it had been.

"A week, I believe." Using his other hand, Ville slowly stirred the hot tea he'd ordered letting the fumes of heat rise and evaporate.

Bam began to chuckle coarsely as he took another long sip, placing the glass gingerly back on the table.

"Your insane. She could be a serial killer, a prostitute! How in hell did you meet her?"

Although Bam's tone was disbelieving, he kept the volume down, respectful to the sleeping woman.

For all of his defects, his anger, and stupid antics, Bam was not the uncaring ass he'd portrayed a thousand times, to a million different people. He often was quiet, reserved, and took more enjoyment in listening to others than forcing them to do so.

"Stumbled lost in my da's sex shop." His mouth flying open, Bam raised his hands in a confused gesture as he practically convulsed in his seat.

"And you want to marry the girl you met in a sex shop, after knowing her a week?"

"I actually proposed after two days."

"Your nuts."

The small cantina pub was clean, and well lit with several patrons scattered about either conversing with a friend or minding themselves. With large glass windows and wooden frames, the booths were a deep brown pleather that was so worn in, it gave only character to the small pub. Strangers walked by the dark streets glancing through the large windows, as a Ismo Alanko song played softly in the background. All in all the place was comfortable and reminded Ville of a shot story he'd once read, 'A Clean, Well-Lighted Place' by Ernest Hemingway.

Ville placed the spoon he'd been using to stir the chamomile on the saucer before he slowly lifted the cup to his lips, glancing at Bam's exasperated face, then to Micheal-ann's sleeping form. He didn't know her at all. Didn't know what she did for fun, had no inkling what her favorite book was, nor her favorite movie. He didn't know how she liked her coffee and couldn't decide if she even liked sleeping with a blanket or not. She had small tattoo's in hidden places, and he still didn't know what any of them said, as well as a often grouchy wit he couldn't quite wrap his head around most times.

Ville knew that she liked salt on absolutely everything, including rice. She liked to chew on tacks when she was nervous and constantly twirled a strand of hair between her fingers. When she was asleep, she jerked sharply, having hit him twice in the face already. Her laugh was jarring and boisterous causing everyone to look when she thought something was funny, and she could not stop quoting movies. He knew her favorite animal was a Hyena, and she loved the artist John Mayer. She never ate breakfast, walked around her apartment in heels for no reason, fit random words into crossword puzzles when she was bored, and was allergic to kiwi's.