Appalachian Ale

Chapter 2

It was the end of May. It was hotter than was typical for this time of year. The sun was brutal and unforgiving. The air conditioner in my apartment was being temperamental, and the maintenance guy wouldn't be able to fix it until Monday. I had to get out of my apartment. I gathered a few of my things - my laptop, a book, a notebook, and some pens – before heading for my favorite café.

I ordered an iced coffee and sat in my usual spot by the windows. I took my book out from my bag and stared out the window for a couple of minutes before I opened it and started to read.

I was lost in a story of artists living in Paris when a vaguely familiar voice popped the bubble of my imagination and brought me back to the real world.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" The voice said, "The café is packed and this is the only seat left."

I looked around the café without first looking at the source of the question. The café was not crowded at all. There were plenty of tables that were empty. I looked up at the stranger – not a stranger – it was Jack.

I smiled at him.

"Well, since it's the only seat left, I guess I don't mind sharing."

He smiled and took his seat across from me, "Thank you."

I smiled and nodded, closing my book.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"The Private Lives of the Impressionists." I showed him the cover of the book.

"Right. You've got a thing for the Impressionists – I remember. Is it good?"

"I like it."

"Well that's good." He smiled sweetly.

I took a sip of my coffee and he looked out the window. His curly hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. A loose curl hung in front of his forehead. His elbows rested on the table as he sat in a slouched and relaxed position. His tank top showed off his lean and muscular arms. I thought that he looked like someone that would come out Greek folklore. The neckline of his tank top teased a glimpse at a tattoo on his chest.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Hm?" He looked away from the window and back at me.

He hadn't heard me. I was being nosey. I shouldn't have been looking at his chest. That was weird. But it was too late. He was looking at me. He was waiting for me to repeat myself.

"The tattoo," I pointed to my own chest, mimicking the placement of the tattoo, "If you don't mind me asking..." I quickly added, feeling my cheeks burn red.

He looked down at himself and, realizing what I was asking, said, "Oh no, I don't mind."

Relief.

He pulled down the neckline of his tank top to expose the entire work of art.

I tried to hide my blushing cheeks.

"It's a heart made from strings," he said, "My first girlfriend wrote me love letters, and with one of them she included this heart made from rubber bands on a peg board. I loved the design so much that I decided to get it tattooed on me."

I looked at the tattoo, I wondered about his first girlfriend, and then I looked back at him.

"Your first girlfriend...so...you're no longer-..."

"No...we're not together."

I felt awkward. I quickly started asking my next question because I didn't want him to think that I was trying to flirt. Not that I would have minded if he was flirtatious. I mentally scolded myself. This was only the second time I had met him.