All characters portrayed are over the age of 18 as is stated in the story.
*****
There's a degree of poetic expression that transcends any spoken language; it breaks through all barriers and makes its message clear without relying upon speech. It's in the slightest gesture, the subtlest look, a smile.
My poet had a name, like Fitzgerald's Jay Gatsby or Daisy Buchanan, but none of you would know it, not any more than I did at the time. It didn't define him as a person. It couldn't; it wasn't even his, but rather the name of some unknown someone scribbled across a green visa and passed from palm to palm until it found its way to his.
I've often wondered if he, or I, weren't a bit like that visa; passed indiscriminately from palm to palm until we found one another, until we each made use of the other for a while.
We met in the spring of what was his eighteenth year if there was any shred of truth to what I thought I knew, or to what I remember now. As memories age, they grow selective and what mine elects to recall is one who was strong and virile and full of hope.
Ironically, I was the displaced one, having come to live in a place where white-females were the minority in a business world of men. Jobs of any kind were in short supply. I took what I could find and was happy to get the temporary position of bartender at a five-star restaurant.
I was one of only three females employed by the establishment; all white, and English speaking. The others were decidedly males of varying ages, and most spoke at least two languages, their native and English if no other.
He didn't come to my attention immediately, in the same manner I came to his, as he told it later. He once said if he had left it up to me to first notice him, we would have never met at all.
By coincidence, it happened at the time-clock one morning, during the rush for everyone to begin the workday promptly. Our hands touched as we reached for our cards at the same time. He smiled and made a gesture of deference. I spoke, but he didn't answer; he only smiled and I was captivated. I blushed and he made note of it with just one look.
There were days and nights, many of them, which passed; yet, not one without me seeing his smile, and he, seeing my blush, with still not a word exchanged between us. I prevailed upon a close friend, Antonio, and inquired discreetly in his regard. Antonio then knew my secret interest and with a knowing smile of his own, he informed me, "He's only a babe, just turned eighteen."
I was crushed by the revelation; I was a woman nearly a decade beyond his years. No one, not even myself, could excuse the gulf that spanned our ages. With that knowledge, I deliberately shunned him to rid myself of both the guilt and the temptation, but my heart and my head were constantly at war over this.
One night, a quiet one, when we were both dismissed of our duties for the evening, he came calling at my bar, like Cyrano, with one to speak on his behalf.
"He wants a ride home," Antonio explained.
I shook my head, not even looking up, and I made the appropriate excuses. It's too far; it's too late; it's out of my way home. At last, I had Antonio explain I was going out to a bar for a drink alone before going home for the evening. With his final plea, he took my hand and I was obliged to look into those jade eyes, and 'no' was neither on my lips nor my heart. Perhaps unwisely, I relented.
At his tender age, he was not yet allowed the privilege of consuming alcohol, not legally. But, I had seen him drink before, among the other waiters, after the restaurant closed at night. I set both wisdom and propriety out the door, and I took him along with me instead. I made a promise to take him home later, though I had no idea how he would direct me there. So much was foolishness for my part.
He was bright and animated showing interest in our route and making mental notes in his own language along the way. He practiced aloud a few English words he was learning and I corrected him in his speech which made him laugh. He laughed harder still when he tried to teach me words in his language and my tongue fell flat.
When we arrived at our destination, he was at my door and my service before my feet could touch ground. He conducted himself as any man of breeding would, acting as my escort, placing my hand on his arm, and his palm at my back. He opened every door, removed my coat, seated me, and placed himself completely at my disposal, formally so in every respect. I don't know how he was able to order and procure drinks without being questioned about his age, but he did.
The atmosphere of the bar was casual. The theme was based on music and décor of the sixties era, a time more than a generation before he was even born. When he heard the music begin to play, his face beamed with pleasure and he sang along with each song as if he had personally composed them all. His enthusiasm made me smile.
One of the traditions of the club required female patrons to dance on top of the bar during certain songs that were played at set intervals. He watched intently during the first display of bar dancers, and when the songs made their rotation and came back into play a half-hour later, he stood up and held out his hand. I followed him and he led me to the bar. Once there, he reached around my waist and lifted me onto the bar with ease.
Having never participated in the synchronized dance, I was at a lost for a moment before I fell into step with the other patrons. He stood back and watched with a broad smile of approval, clapping in time to the music. When the song ended, he gave a loud applause, and lifted me down, letting me slide to the floor within his grasp.
He locked his arms around me and leaned down to kiss me very gently. I tried to scold him for it, but my scolding held no sincerity, and he could tell from the way I blushed and turned away that I enjoyed his kiss. He made no attempt to push the matter further, but instead, he focused on dancing together for the remainder of the evening.
Although, neither of us could understand a word of conversation between us, we never stopped laughing and we enjoyed every moment we spent together. When the lounge closed, we began our trek in search of his residence. Armed only with a general direction to head, I drove, and with gestures on his part, we found our way there eventually.
The drive was dark; the yard shaded by large oaks. Another gesture warned me of others present inside the residence and to keep silent to avoid waking them. My intentions were not to linger, but he reached across me and turned the ignition key to 'off'. He attempted to convey some message, but I clearly did not understand. Not until he exited the vehicle, came around to my side, and pulled me out of the driver's seat. He picked me up in his arms and placed me upon the hood of the car.
He began a tentative exploration of me, my clothes, my hair, and my face. He let me know the reason he enjoyed my dancing above him on the bar was because it gave him an unrestrained view of my undergarments. I had to laugh when he demonstrated his pleasure at having seen the stockings and garters under my skirt. It wasn't the same giddy pleasure an ordinary eighteen-year-old boy would discover. He demonstrated the interest of a man, full-grown and well beyond his years.
He kissed me again with the same gentleness as earlier. There was no lack of confidence in his kiss or in the way he held me in his arms, but the moment I made the slightest protest, he released me and stepped away. He offered his hand from a distance and helped me down from the hood of my car.
He saw me safely back into the driver's seat, leaned against the door and brushed my lips lightly with his own. He whispered a 'thank you' in Spanish and stepped away. He watched me until I disappeared from his view.
*****
The following evening, when the hour grew close to end our shift, he approached me at the bar again; this time alone. He mouthed the name of the lounge where we went the night before and pointed to his watch. I shook my head, having had time to reconsider the folly of continuing to see him.
His face took on a stern look and he nodded firmly, repeating his request, but giving it more of the air of a demand. At his bidding, we made an official date. When we left together, heads turned and comments were made, but we departed together just the same. Antonio was the only one who smiled when we made our exit.
This time, he took my keys, placed me in the passenger seat and drove straight to the bar. We spent the evening drinking and dancing, and as before, enjoying one another immensely. At end of our date, he drove to his home, and we again sat on the car in darkness, listening to music from the radio and occasionally sharing a kiss.
We began speaking freely, in whispers, and each in our own language. We discovered we could understand a small portion of the things we exchanged. It took patience, and it took time, but we found some common ground. We slowly began to discover one another, our thoughts and our ideals. This date, too, ended with the innocence of a chaste kiss, but it began a pattern, and before we had our second date, we were labeled as "dating" by our co-workers.
*****
By the evening of our fourth outing, I had grown quite accustomed to him. He began meeting me at my car when I arrived at work each morning or evening. I heard the murmurs of disapproval when he walked me to my car late at night. I saw the looks others gave us when he explained where we went after work, but when he looked at me, I saw nothing but love in his eyes, and it made every other look pale by comparison.
