The gala-- one for something he didn't quite remember -- was winding down. He was winding down as well at the bar. His tickets had been purchased automatically, and he didn't really care about going, but something in the late winter night drove him from his apartment to mingle with the equally rich and bored. And now he was thinking it had been a poor inspiration.
"I've been warned to stay away from you," said a voice to his left. It was sweet, a little husky.
Eric looked up from his glass of rye. "It is probably good advice. Sometimes I wish I could take it myself." He looked her over, appraising.
She was tall, willowy, with a long fall of hair the color of good caramel highlighted with gold. Light brown eyes -- the color of a long pour of Hennessy -- and a striking face. He had a fleeting wish for his camera -- he could do remarkable things with that face. But even beyond that, it echoed for him.
He smiled. The self-deprecating smile, rather than the lightly flirtations smile, or the wry smile, or the seductive smile, or the challenging smile. He had many smiles.
"So," he said at last. "If you have been given such splendid advice, is there something I can do for you?"
"Ada."
"Ah, so, is there something I can do for you, Ada?"
"Aren't you interested in who warned me?"
"Not particularly. For such a large city, ours is more like a small town. Listen, I am many things, but I was raised to be hospitable at the very least. Can I at least buy you a drink, especially as you are eschewing the advice of your good friends?"
"Certainly," she said, taking the bar stool next to him. She glanced at his glass on the mahogany bar top. "I'll have whatever you are having." There was a challenge in her smile, and the way she held her head.
"Excellent." He polished off his drink and tapped the glass twice for the bartender, who was staying out of the way of conversation near the end of the bar. "One more, and one for the lady."
"Yes, sir," she said, and poured the whiskey into a pair of single old fashioned glasses.
"Rocks or neat, lovely Ada," he asked.
"However you are drinking it will be fine. And now I am lovely?"
"Oh, you were long before you came over," he said, paying for the drinks and a generous tip. 'Never undertip a bartender' was his motto. He had an aversion to running a tab.
"So, scotch?"
He smiled again, still the self-deprecating smile. "Oh, hell no. I have neither the ratified tastes nor the sense of masochism for that spirit. No, this is a good American rye, a Sarzerac 18-year-old. More spice, less bog water."
She reached for the glass.
"Smell it first, like tasting wine. Take a small sniff at first." He did as he instructed, breathing in the spicy smell of cinnamon and allspice. "Then we toast, then sip." He held his glass until she raised hers. "
Γ nos amours.
" He tapped his glass to hers and drank.
She looked the whiskey over warily, then took a small sip, more than a drop on the tongue, but less than a full slug. He watched her eyes, which opened slightly in surprise, and the look of concentration on her face. And again felt an echo he didn't fully recognize.
She artlessly ran her tongue across her upper lip, then took a larger drink. "Interesting. There is a lot going on there."
"Yes, there is. Now take another sip, a small one, and hold it in your mouth and inhale, again, like wine tasting. Get your sense of that, then swallow and wait until you get the full finish." He did as he explained, and reveled in the slight pepper and burnt caramel tastes.
She swallowed, concentrating on the flavors, then smiled slightly again.
"Seemingly simple things can be far more complex than we realize," he said, sipping more.
Her smile was wry. "Why do I have a feeling this entire episode was a set-up for that truism?"
"No idea what you are talking about, lovely Ada. You were the one who chose your drink, after all."
"TouchΓ©. So aren't you even the slightest bit interested?"
"I have few virtues. One of them is patience. And you are dying to tell me, so all I have to do is wait."
"Fine," she said with a huff of air. "My friends say that you are not to be trusted. That you are a seducer, and a cad."
Eric put his elbow on the bar and set his chin upon it, tapping his index finger beside his mouth. "Fascinating. You know someone who actually uses the word 'cad.' Was your friend a British gentleman from World War Two, who also called me a bounder?"
She laughed, and it was lovely, and he decided to put that on the list of things he wanted to do again.
"Neither," she said. "They told me you are a liar, and you sleep with a lot of women."
"Well, I never claimed sanctification, so I would cop to gilding the occasional lily. As for sleeping with a lot of women, I suppose it would depend on your definition of 'a lot.' I do appreciate the company of women, but I don't consider myself a belt notcher."
"Married women," she said flatly.
"Ah," he said, "that. Well, as I said, some simple things are more complex than they seem. So, is that why you came over? To call me a cad and a bounder and stand in judgement of my sins?"
"No," she said, her voice softer. "No, I'm sorry if it came out like that. I apologize."
"No need to apologize, the cut was not that deep." It had been deeper. "So then, if you were warned to stay away, why are you tempting fate and social pariahism? Pariahty? I doubt that's a word, but I like it."
She smiled as she sipped her whiskey. "I make my own decisions."
That echoed in him as well, and he looked at her again, squinting slightly as if that would help.
She laughed, and it was a good laugh, big and indulgent, and Eric smiled a real smile in spite of himself.
"You don't remember me," she said, but it didn't sound like an accusation. There was too much amusement.
"But you think you know me," he said.
"I do."