White Russian
Posted By aderkatch on September 14, 2009
In the bar it was loud and hot, and while the counter was wet in some parts, that kind of thing was commonplace here; just as long as they served him on time, he never complained. Towards the back there was a woman who sat in a booth with a dark hat on, legs crossed, and a cigarette dangling from her middle and index fingers. She was not important, although she wanted to be.
The ice in his glass was melting, but he didn’t mind because they always made his drinks too strong. He sat apart from the others in glorious solitude looking down at his hands and his fingers.
Soon she would walk over to talk to him because he was handsome and because he wore nice black shoes. She would smile her white smile and once they exchanged enough words she would put her hand on his shoulder and squeeze a little bit. However, before any of that could happen, she would wait to finish her cigarette where she was.
“White Russian” he said, and then there two glasses on the counter.
The scene began once the stage cleared and enough patrons left. She slid out of her booth and came up to him.
“I think I’ve seen you here before.”
“Could be.”
“Unless you have one of those faces that you can mistake for someone else’s.”
“I don’t.”
“My name is Monica.” She moved closer.
“Pleasure to meet you. I’m John.”
“John. Well. John, what are you doing out here looking so glum, in a place like this, especially so late into the night?”
He looked at his hands.
“I ordered this drink, but now that I think about it, it’s not for my tastes. Not tonight. Would you like it, Monica?”
She smiled.
“That’s sweet. But don’t let me give you the wrong impression. I normally don’t accept drinks from men I just meet at musky bars. I’m not that kind of girl. But I think I can make an exception for you. You seem – oh I don’t know – a bit different. Maybe you and I have a lot in common.”
“Maybe. But in the meantime, here’s to things in common”
“To things in common.”
She was thin, and he saw the thinness in her face, in her cheeks, in her mouth, and he knew what that said about her, but it didn’t matter. Monica had big eyes, and she blinked too often, too awkwardly. She would pretend to be drunker than she actually was, and later, after last call and after they laughed enough, she would ask to go home with him. And he would say it’s fine. They would kiss in the taxi. And after that, they would spend the night together. Then, while he would be asleep she would take his wallet and his watch, and – for the hell of it – the silver cuff links he wore, and escape his bed to make her way down the stairs to the street. And then Monica would go home so she could cry alone on her couch, and as her nose would bleed and her legs would twitch she would whisper to herself something that could have sounded like “sorry”.
Marla Singer and Marion Silver had a love child, and they named it Monica.