My Brain is Jackin'

Lemon Crush

Two comfortable strangers meet at a bar. Just as they'd done every week for almost a year. He arrives early and takes his place in a corner booth. The low light creates shadows that he easily hides behind so he can watch her enter. She's late, but she's always late. So that means she's on time. As she bustles in through the heavy wooden doorway out of the cool air, she shakes off the frigid temperature. The shock of her electric blue wool coat blends in nicely with the phosphorescent surroundings. As he watches her from the shadows, a small smile tucked away deep within the corner of his mouth. He loved the way her dark coils were now lighter for the coming spring as if dipped in honey. He didn't understand how, but it brought even more warmth to her smile. And recently, it seemed he needed more to battle against the cold. But this is something he would never share with her, maybe... unless tonight could be different.

This was their routine, a ritual of sorts, each playing their part perfectly. Walking in, she looked to the corner in which he sat. Never once acknowledging him. Surveying the room as she looked for someone, but knew he was already waiting. Her heart would always briefly skip the moment she noticed the familiar figure in her peripheral, but she would never tell him. She would then take her space at the bar, sitting on the far left, then place her bag on the seat directly to the right. This let everyone else know she was expecting company.

They would sit for hours, sometimes past last call, past closing, but then again sometimes not. Sometimes in loud boisterous conversations, sometimes in quiet secret discussions, sometimes not saying anything at all, their shoulders dancing between wanting to touch and being afraid to touch. They would argue about jazz. He had wondered if she had ever heard his music, but he would never ask. She often wondered if he would ever ask her about his jazz albums. She had found one, years before at a thrift store for fifty cents, but she would never tell him she actually got it for a quarter. They spoke about work, their exes, politics, and basketball. He would call her a traitor because she would always cheer too loudly for the San Antonio Spurs. She said it wasn't the team but the player she followed, and wherever Manu Ginobili was, she was there too. He thought it was a solid strategy, but he'd never tell her.

He loved her smile the most. The way she would lightly touch his arm when she was in a passionate debate, a way to connect to the listener as she spoke. How her hair would curl softly at the back of her neck when she would wear it up. He wondered about that downy piece of flesh and what it would feel like beneath his lips. He wanted to tell her; thought maybe she hadn't been told enough how beautiful she looked in every color. But yellow, yellow against the lovely, bronzed tone of her skin was his favorite.

After taking her seat, she would finally begin to peel off her layers. Gloves, then scarf, then finally her jacket. Tonight, she wore yellow, he took it as a green light. Again, she would survey the small room. Ancient stuffed booths, the red velvet she was sure had once been lush and vibrant. After years of friction against bodies as they slid past, they had been worn thin. The cobbled brick walls barely allowed any of the lighting to bounce off the stone, somehow swallowing all the brightness within. This created a cavernous environment that often blared lively notes into the street outside. As she soaked in her surroundings, she made sure never to allow her gaze to stray too long into the corner in which he sat. Then he would know she was waiting for him, and their game would be over, and she hadn't quite finished playing, at least not yet.

She would always order a shot, tonight though she ordered two. She would then order a Lambrusco. The deep, rich garnet of the wine glistened against the glass as she placed it in front of the spot he would soon occupy. She longed to hear his laugh. How he would draw it out absurdly long at times. Then, as if to reignite it, he would start again getting caught in a loop that would almost bring them both to tears. She loved his eyes, the winged liner so expertly angled. How he would flutter his dark exaggerated lashes flirtatiously when he was being an ass. Calculating exactly how coy he needed to be to get himself out of trouble. Most of all, she loved the way her name left him in a low rumble as they whispered closely. She had wondered how her name would sound falling from his lips in countless situations. But she would never tell him, she was sure he had received these adulations far too many times and he didn't need her to further boost his ego.