He Said, She Said

Prose, including snippets (mini-memoirs).
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sasha
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He Said, She Said

Post by sasha » June 15th, 2017, 1:26 pm

She was seated at the bar, at the end nearest the street, when he walked in. He'd seen her around town a few times before: once at the supermarket, wearing the same fuzzy white parka and carrying one of the store's red plastic baskets rather than pushing a cart. She'd been perusing the imported cheeses when he'd wheeled past, and he'd taken note of her then, too. She was small, barely topping five feet. Her blonde hair was cut short, frosted, layered, and fashionably tousled. Her face was beginning to show signs of a long struggle with gravity - the lines, the barest beginning of jowls, the flesh below the large eyes beginning to seek its own level. He put her age at perhaps somewhere downstream of 50. She must have been stunning when she was younger. Now she was merely lovely.

He'd chanced upon her again some weeks later at the liquor store, when he'd been picking out a bottle of wine for his nephew's wedding gift. He'd done a double-take when she'd passed, but managed to snap his attention back to the racks when she’d unexpectedly turned his way to take down a bottle for closer examination. She was as attractive as he'd remembered from the first sighting.

As she was now. He assumed an air of indifference to pass behind her to the farthest stool, placed his jacket on the back of the chair, and seated himself. It was early, so there were only three other patrons, already nursing their drinks. The bartender, a pretty, heavyset young woman perhaps in her twenties, appeared almost immediately. "What can I get you, Hon?" she asked.

He looked up overhead at the beer bottles on display, dismayed by the usual prevalence of bland, commercially-dominant domestic fare. "What have you got on tap?" he asked.

She recited a dozen or so obscure local brands, one of which he recognized. "I'll have one of those," he said. "Twelve ounce or a pint?" she asked. "Better make it a twelve," he replied. She took down a glass, filled it, and placed it front of him. "That'll be four dollars." He dug into his wallet and handed her a five. She took it and returned a moment later with his change. He left the bill on the counter where she'd placed it.

He casually panned around the room during his first sip, letting his eyes pass over the woman at the end of the bar as he did. Not only was she alone, she did not appear to be waiting for anyone. She sipped through a red straw from a glass now mostly full of ice. The customers between them were all younger men, and seemed to be paying her no notice. One was a hefty red-bearded fellow wearing a Red Sox cap and a soiled jacket bearing the name and logo of local roofing company. He sat alone, staring at the TV. The other two were apparently college students, in animated discussion that bounced cheerfully from basketball to Medieval literature to dorm parties and back.

She'd set the glass down now, and was tracing something with her finger in the condensation on its side. He wondered if he should summon the courage to approach her and introduce himself, and wondered what he could possibly say to her if he did…


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


"Excuse me..."

She looked up. At close range, her age was even more apparent than from afar. The soft vulnerability of her features gave way to a harsh edginess that seemed to regard him with bored disdain. "Do I know you?" she said.

He briefly glanced away, just long enough to compose his face into a sheepish, lopsided smile, then turned back to her. "No," he admitted. "But I've seen you around town, here and there, and wondered - well, just thought maybe we could introduce ourselves."

"Did you, now," she said. She wasn't even looking at him.

This was going to be a hard case, he thought. He steeled himself, drew in his breath, and extended his hand. "I'm Alan."

She turned and looked at his hand, not at him, before limply taking his fingers in her own. "Natalie." She dropped her hand as if she'd just touched a frog.

"Mind if I sit?"

She shrugged. "It's a free country."

He settled uneasily onto a stool, leaving an empty one as a buffer between them. He set his parka there. He cleared his throat nervously. "So," he ventured. "What do you do?"

"Do?" There was a disquieting undercurrent of amusement in her tone.

"Yeah." He had to speak slowly to keep his stammer under control. "I'm an engineering tech over to Holden Industries. We make..."

"Widgets. Widgets and gizmos." She metered out the contemptuous irony with exacting precision. "Or something along those lines."

"Something along those lines," he gamely agreed. "What about you?"

"I manage the Tilden chain of jewelers." She said it with a sigh, as one might to a pestering six-year old. “Perhaps you’ve heard of them?”

He blushed, anger rising up within him to beat back the humiliation. “Of course I have,” he said. “Look, I’m sorry if I’ve come on a little strong – I just thought we might share a drink or two and some quiet chat.”

“Well, you thought wrong, Andy.”

“Alan.”

“Whatever. I came in here minding my own business and I strongly urge you to do the same. Nice to have met you.”

He nodded grimly. “Yeah,” he said. “You too.” He stood, slipped into his parka, and out the door. If he’d had a tail, it would have been tucked quivering between his legs.



* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


She recognized him immediately when he entered, but kept her eyes firmly on her drink while he passed behind her to the far end of the counter. He was the same man she'd seen at the supermarket a few months before: nice looking, medium build; thick, gray hair a little longer than fashionable, carelessly falling over his forehead; and large, oversized aviator glasses, definitely out of fashion. And he didn't seem to care. He’d seemed comfortable in his own skin, weaving confidently around the other shoppers, and she'd noted somewhat wistfully that his shopping cart didn't seem to contain more than an old bachelor might require over the course of a week. He'd seemed to glance her way once or twice, but then again perhaps it was only to inventory the dairy display.

She'd seen him again more recently in the wine section of the state liquor store, and had wandered down the same aisle on the pretense of hunting for a particular brand. She got close enough to make out the crows' feet and laugh lines, and to observe that his left hand was unringed. He was wearing the same threadbare ski jacket she'd seen him in before, and sagely deduced that no wife or partner would have let him appear in public wearing such a rag. He'd been wearing it today, too. Hard to place his age, but he might have been in his mid-fifties. He looked like he might be a professor, or something - the kind of guy who correctly uses "whom" in everyday speech and orders wine by vintage.

She took a sip of her Scotch, now mostly water, and made a motion to catch the bartender's eye. The girl set down the glass she was drying and came over. "Get you another, Hon?"

"Please," she answered, and slid the empty glass away from her. The bartender took it and set about pouring another.

What if I bought him a round? Would that be too forward? Would it be a good way to break the ice? If we could just get past the introductions, we’d at least be in a position to get to know one another - what harm could there be?

When the bartender returned with her drink, she leaned forward and whispered, "Miss?"

The girl set the drink down. "What is it, Hon?"

"That man, at the end of the bar - in the green sweater..."

"Yes?"

She hesitated. Go on, she thought. What harm could it do…?


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


"Excuse me..."

She looked up. He stood a few feet off, the battered parka slung carelessly over one shoulder, staring at her with a curious frankness. "I believe I have you to thank for this," and he slightly hoisted a glass of dark, reddish beer.

She smiled back, lowered her eyes, and shrugged. "I hope you don’t think me too forward,” she said. “You seemed awfully alone all the way down there, and thought you might not mind some company."

"That's very kind of you," he answered, and took a seat two away from her, setting his parka down on the empty one between them.

She extended her hand. "I'm Cathy," she said.

He took her hand and shook it stiffly. "Liam," he replied.

When he raised his glass to his lips his eyes seemed to be looking everywhere but at her. The silence became an itch she could no longer ignore, but the only words that came to her mind rang with hollow banality. "So, Liam - what brings you here?"

He carefully set his glass down on the counter and seemed to take an inordinate amount of time adjusting its position. "Well," he began, "I'm a cultural anthropologist at the university, and teach my students that the neighborhood watering hole is as superb a place to observe human behavior as any remote village of primitives." He paused to sip his beer and leveled his gaze at her. There was nothing friendly or inviting in that look; she fancied it was icily judgemental, a look that regarded her as nothing more than an interesting specimen. "And you?"

Too late she was coming to recognize the folly of her initiative. She cleared her throat. "I'm - I'm a buyer for Walker & Howe," she managed. "The wholesalers for..."

"Yes," he interrupted her, "the plumbing people. I'm aware of them."

The seconds ticked by. She was starting to feel a little sick. "So - you come here to people watch?"

"People watch," he repeated, and gave a little chuckle that chilled her. "How interestingly put. Yes, that’s what we do. I don't suppose you're aware of the work of Bronislav Malinowsky, by any chance?" he said.

She couldn't bring herself to speak, so she just shook her head.

He grunted. "No, I didn't think so. Franz Boas, perhaps?"

This time she made no reply at all. She couldn't.

"Surely, even you must have heard of Margaret Mead!"

“That – that one I think I’ve heard of…”

“I would hope so.” He set the glass down again. “Look. I do appreciate your buying me a drink, but I’m afraid we’ve little else to discuss. If you’ll excuse me, I have research papers to grade.” He rose, leaving the beer largely undrunk, and strode purposefully out into the street, leaving her ego tattered and bruised and clad only in shame.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


"Hon? What about him?"

She felt herself blushing, and shook her head in exasperation. "Nothing," she said briskly. "I thought for a moment he was someone I knew. My mistake. Sorry"

The girl shrugged. "No problem, Hon. It happens." By now the roofer was signaling his desire for a refill, and she moved off to fetch him another.

What the hell was I thinking? she thought. What difference does it make if they hit you with their fists or their words? So what if the bleeding is internal, and the bruises are better hidden? It hurts just as much. It doesn’t matter if he has a 10-th grade education and pours asphalt, or a college degree and teaches cultural anthropology. At least my husband had been honest in his brutality; those cultured ones are worse because they’re so much better at concealing their true natures.

That was a close one, Girl, she thought. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d made a mistake by holding herself back, and felt a little pang of regret, a sensation somewhere between what-if and if-only; but she knew it came from that innocent, naive part of her soul that never seemed to learn the hard truths of life. She drew up a bit of the fresh Scotch through the straw and savored its smoky taste and stinging warmth like a soothing liniment rubbed over a burn. She nodded ever so slightly to herself. What the hell had she been thinking?


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


He finished his beer managing to steal only a few more glances her way, but was satisfied that Nothing had been the right thing to do. It was better by far, and safer, that he’d maintained a distant anonymity, well beyond the range of any artillery she might have at her disposal. He rose, tucked the dollar bill left over from the fiver he’d given the bartender under his glass for a tip, and pulled on his battered parka. He fastened the bottommost clasps, and set out towards the door.

At his approach she glanced up and for the barest of instants their gazes met. He acknowledged hers with a half-smile and a brief nod of his head. In the instant before returning his attention to the floor he almost fancied that she’d given a little smile in return – but it must have been his wishfully-thinking imagination. He pushed through the door into a bitter wind pouring down from Mount Wheelock, and thrusting his hands into his pockets, hurried to his car.




12/28/2011
Last edited by sasha on January 31st, 2018, 9:58 am, edited 1 time in total.
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"Falsehood flies, the Truth comes limping after it." - Jonathan Swift, ca. 1710

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judih
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Re: He Said, She Said

Post by judih » June 16th, 2017, 12:07 am

nice!

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sasha
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Re: He Said, She Said

Post by sasha » June 21st, 2017, 11:43 am

thanks, Judih - the walls we build around ourselves to keep danger out can also keep us trapped within... guilty as charged...
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"Falsehood flies, the Truth comes limping after it." - Jonathan Swift, ca. 1710

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