There is something about the way she readjusts the jacket hung over her shoulder. I see her left fingers slightly caressing the fabric of the dark sweater and pulling it over her breasts. It’s not that she is cold, but more a reflex left over from the years when she had been embarrassed by her own body. Her pants are white and free flowing. The fabric, light and see-through (cotton? linen?), allows me to make out the line of her behind and her shapely thighs. Suddenly, she is aware of my stare and turns around to look at me. Our eyes meet briefly. I can’t tell if she likes me, but she doesn’t shut down.
Beautiful? In that particular way that seems visible only to me. In that particular way that urges me to reach for my camera. In that way that tempts me to pull out her inner beauty, the one others don’t see. She is attractive but she has never quite believed it. No one ever told her when it was most necessary. Her friend is a scrawny brunette, with slightly dark skin, thin lips, perky little breasts, and a high, round butt. She throws a warning look at me and I read the subtitles: “Fuck off, loser!” They go in first, then I follow. I tail them to see which of the bars they are heading towards, and I pick another from which I can see them. The bartender is quick, but the orders are piling up. All of a sudden, next to me, four half-drunk women show up. They are all blonde, wearing tank tops, shorts, and flip flops. Three of them could lose at least twenty pounds and would still be chunky. The fourth is beyond help.
I exchange glances with the woman at the bar across from me at the very moment a broad-shouldered guy with a beer in his hand approaches her. These muscled morons have a distinct way of holding their beer bottles—grasped firmly like dumbbells. From this distance, by the way the young woman speaks with words, gestures, and body language, I can tell she’s not American. And there is something about the way she keeps pulling on the sweater over her shoulders as if it’s a shawl or a light blanket. Obviously, the conversation with the body builder doesn’t go anywhere, as he is not the type to waste time talking, so he waves goodbye and approaches the next girl, as he would the next piece of exercise equipment.
The bartender leans over to take my order. I tell him what I want.
“Dirty martini.”
“With vodka?” He says.
“Absolute-ly!” Where could this young woman be from?
“Olives?”
“Three.” No, definitely not Europe. Actually, why not? Portugal, perhaps.
She could be Spanish. This quiet intensity in her. The bartender shakes the cocktail and pours the murky, greenish content into the chilled martini glass. I take a sip. Wonderful. I compliment the bartender. He thanks me humbly and asks if I want the ice from the shaker before he tosses it. Professional, a true professional. He asks me where I’m from.
“Bulgaria.”
“Never been there.”
“And you?”
“Michigan.”
“Never been there, either, but I went to school close by, at Ohio State.”
“Oh, Ohio State. The Buckeyes almost did it this year, huh?”
“Almost.”
“Are you a bartender?” He asks.
“Used to be. It’s how I put myself through school.”
“You know what you want.”
“I know nothing.”
“I meant . . . the martini.”
“Yeah, I know my martinis.”
“What did you study in Ohio?”
“Photography.”
“Cool. Is that what you do now?”
“No, I work for a pharmaceutical company.”
“You take pictures for them?”
“No. I stopped taking pictures some time ago.”
“So, what do you do now?”
“I monitor data from clinical trials.”
“Well,” he shrugs. “It pays the bills.”
“It pays the bills.” I say and order another one. I leave money for the two cocktails. He thanks me and goes to the other side of the bar to take a large order. I sip the second martini much more slowly. I feel its coolness crawling down my throat and penetrating my body, caressing my agitated nerves. I close my eyes and enjoy it. Nice. Maybe she’s Latin American. Venezuela? No, maybe Argentina. The tranquil grace, the walk. The tango in her eyes. Argentina. Definitely, Argentina.
“What are you drinking?” I hear a raspy voice to my left. I turn. The fattest of the four smiles, leaning toward me. The strap of her top has slipped down her round shoulder. Her bra is green.
“Uhh, martini. What are you drinking?”
“Long Island Iced Tea.” She manages to conceal her Southern drawl until the third syllable.
“Very good.” I say and get down from my bar stool to pick up something from the floor that looks like a dollar bill.
“So what are you drinking?” She asks again and leans toward me, exposing an even better view of her cleavage.
“Martini. And what are you drinking?” It’s not a dollar bill, it turns out to be a dentist’s business card.
“Long Island Iced Tea. And you?” I decide to see how far I can go.
“Martini. And you?”
“Long Island Ice Tea. And you?”
“Martini. And you?”
“Long Island Ice . . . But you asked me already. Wait, what happened to your face?” Goddamit, I had forgotten about my bruise.
“I fell down the stairs.” I take another sip of my martini and glimpse at the bar across from me. She is not there. Her friend is not there, either. I scan the entire place but she is nowhere to be found. I jump off my bar stool and start looking for her, climbing the stairs to the upper level. I can’t find her. I don’t see her around the bathrooms either, and I don’t see her outside where the smokers are hanging out. I don’t see her anywhere, ever again.
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