A thin gold chain, R.C. Salyer [beach read txt] 📗

broom behind the bar heading over to clean the shattered glass. The dart board drones on with endless beeps and burps of noise defining victory or defeat. I close my eyes as the night burns with familiarity.
She ordered a Paulaner to my right. I’m not sure how she managed to sneak in under my all-seeing rear view. A soft aroma settled around the bar top half a second after she spoke. A subtle flowery girl smell grabs my half-drunken memory banks, and sets them spinning to mark if I know it. Nothing registers. The drunken salesman leaves his seat and shuffles towards the door. She sidesteps his stagger to avoid a collision causing her elbow to glance off of mine. A spark of excitement is ignited. I gently acknowledge the contact by moving my arm closer to my chest to redefine my personal space. A gentle apology floats in my direction as she confirms the moment. The look I steal over my shoulder is so fast the gun-slinging drummer in the shadows would have been in a pine box. But she catches me. My breath stops and nearly chokes me as it trips over itself in my mouth. Her piercing eyes slow the backward clock and hold me in place. I absorb the classic beauty of her face as the pulse of the moment tightens awkwardly begging for the release of eye contact. My contacts dry forcing me to blink and break the spell. My forgiveness comes out in a breathy jumble of words that gets caught in my teeth. I don’t think even I could understand my words, so I say it again to clarify. Her eyes shine in that way that tells me she thinks I’m cute, but she is not up for anything else. I look back at my beer with an uncontrollable desire to see her face again. I trace the shape of her silhouette in my mind, and note all the flecks of colors that I saw in her eyes. Her heart shaped face strikes a perfect balance between being absolutely symmetrical and slightly askew. My fingers shred my beer napkin with nervous angst. I worry that all of the depression, fear and boredom in my eyes will keep her away. I look at my god’s eye view of the bar and see that she has taken the salesmen’s seat. I can feel every eye in my mirror looking at me demanding for me to do something. I’m frozen. Opening topics get edited and filtered a hundred times over. I’m left with nothing that is right; nothing that fits. I replay scenarios in my mind’s eye and every time I fail to say anything that makes any sense. I realize I’ve been holding my breath and I let out a sigh of frustration.
She’s halfway through her first drink when I decide to turn and smile, intending to goad her to talk first. She missed it. Instead she is looking at her amber colored beer, unknowingly wiping the condensation from the hardened glass. A few lazy hairs have fallen from her ear and hang in her downturned face. There is pain and confusion in her body language as her shoulders are stiff and slightly slumped back in her chair. Her milk colored fingers and hands are moist from tracing the water on the glass. Her neck is barely visible through her medium length hay-colored hair. I can see that from the faint outline of her ears that they are abnormally large. I can’t help but smile as I lock that piece of information away. A thin gold chain hangs around her neck and tucks gently into the top of her blouse. Her lips are pursed as she enjoys last sip of her drink. She feels me looking and her eyes move before her head turns. She cuts her eyes in my direction and can only see me out of the faintest of peripherals. The corners of her modestly shaped mouth move upward, unnoticed by god’s view, a smile only I can see. I feel it lifting my confusion, I speak. She slowly turns and sees me fully. My thoughts begin to cloud over again but I hold them by their rat-like tails. As she responds, her voice grabs my shoulders and demands that I adjust my posture. When she speaks her lips move in small subtle and foreign ways. I’m in a blur induced by a combination of a magic spell and strong bourbon whisky. I don’t know what I’m saying, but she likes it. She leans forward while I speak, and her head is cocked to the side as if confused by my words. Her eyes close when she laughs and she uncrosses her ankles on the bar stool. I can only hear her, even thought I notice her right hand taps rhythm to a song I’ve quieted to the background. Her slender fingers twirl her hair with gentle thoughtfulness as she waits patiently for me to order another round. I imagine the slow scratch of those blush-pink nails against my neck. Her hands are frail with an unknown hidden strength that I can only feel but can’t see. She carries herself as someone that knows what she wants she just doesn’t know how to find it. I hope she doesn’t see my sadness as I see hers. I’ve lose track of backward time.
I bought three beers before I realize I don’t know her name. Sarah. She tells me her name is Sarah. I taste the name in my mouth as I repeat it back to her and give her mine. It tastes sweet but has a touch of sourness. A sourness that arises from a life spent as a thirty-something perennial bachelor. A familiar name I love to hate. I say something that strikes her as funny and she unknowingly slaps my arm and tilts her head back in laughter. My arm burns under her skin even though her fingers are cold. My sixth sense knows how beautiful her body is even though she is completely covered with a coat and loose hanging scarf. I point to the restroom when she asks. She stands and I’m amazed that she is much smaller that I would have expected. She removes her jacket as I acknowledge the accuracy of my sixth sense. My view on the wall sees that hypnotic walk that all men crave. Her return is not soon enough as I wallow in the heat that has cooled since she left. My eyes are again closed when her smell attaches itself to the bar top. We talk of experiences gleaned during our college years and the warm nights of our childhood. The conversation holds tempo and pace with a walk on the beach.
She looks away to check her watch. In a moment the heat fades faster than the summer sun behind autumn’s first cloud. She faces me, bringing the sun back, only there is no warming heat. I know she is leaving before she speaks. Her eyes tell me they want to stay, but her mouth says it’s time to leave. I strategically show my sadness through my eyes trying to guilt her to stay for another beer. Her mouth shapes the words I refuse to hear. I let the bar noise drown her plastic excuse while I allow my lips to acknowledge the dismissal. Her muted pink lips naturally move in opposite directions when she speaks, but even more so when she lies. As if they too are fighting against the words she makes them form. I ask to see her again. All joy completely leaves her face and has been replaced by either confusion or depression. She answers my question but with hesitation. She says that she would like that, but I can tell she doesn’t want me to call her. I write my number on my nervous half-shredded napkin. I smile as I tell her to call when she loses her boyfriend. Her face washes with an uneasy smile of understanding. I watch her as she shoulders her coat and finds her keys. The door slams a loud crack as the wind pulls it from her hands and into the door jamb. The crack that punctuates my night.
The day late and dollar short curse that is my life, strikes again. My eyes have that swollen 1:30 in the morning feel as I hold back the memories that will never happen. I tell myself that I fall too fast and hurt too much without cause. I explain to my empty beer bottle that her glow was from the angelic place of novelty and new found excitement. An excitement that gradually fades as new faces become worn with constant viewing. Known shapes, angles and colors that are no longer new and don’t get the extra attention they once craved. In this way, knowledge curses my unrequited love. My mind tells me to shut up and enjoy what just happened. But the memory has cooled with the chill blowing outside.
My god’s eye view is limited, as I no longer know what I’m looking at behind me. Young lovers have left. New friends have been united by booze into single night sleepovers. Strangers are old friends elbowing and laughing with each other as they pay their tabs. Music dances along and holds a final drunk few waiting to get their money’s worth out of the jukebox. Pool sticks are stacked in a wood box in the back, with the final shot still left un-played on the red felt top. My tab is laid in front of me as the lights come up causing temporary blindness. My eyes are slow to adjust, waking my headache with their effort. The outside cold rushes over me as strangers and unnamed faces spill out the bar. The old man in the back sips his beer and as he waits patiently for the night air.
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Publication Date: 03-02-2010

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Dedication:
For Mom, may you never believe much of this.