The sign in the window of the bar almost totally blocked the window. "TV NOT WORKING" was what it said, and that was easier to read at a distance than the name of the bar was. But you could tell that it was a bar, which was more important, probably.
He was not really much of one for bars, but he felt like he wanted a drink or two, he really did not want a bottle or a six-pack, and he did want some company. It wasn't that he didn't have any friends in town, it was that it was eleven o'clock at night and nobody but his family knew that Paul Janson was back in town.
He had been working all day on unpacking and moving into his new apartment in Silver Spring, finishing up in a little over half the time that he had scheduled for it, and he was not due at work until the day after tomorrow. He had worked harder at getting stuff squared away than at any job lately where he got paid, but it all was done now and Paul wanted to relax.
When he walked in, the first thing he saw was that the place had been done up in a fake-western style, spurs and saddles on the walls and little rough tables in a few places around, though mostly it had booths and the usual bar. The second thing he saw was that they had tried to lay a sports bar on top of the western stuff. "TV NOT WORKING" wasn't telling half the story; they had a giant screen for a projection tv, and if it had been working on this Monday night, it certainly would have been packed with people watching the football game. And Paul would not have gotten further than the front door, because he don't like that kind of noise, except when he was at the game.
The third thing he noticed was that the woman behind the bar was Ellen Fox.
Paul had dated Ellen Fox in his senior year of high school. He remembered very well how it felt to kiss her, and how her tongue would slowly circle with his in his car, and the movies, and so many other places. His hands recalled how they cupped her breasts, at first over her blouse and bra, but as the months went on he was under one and then the other until they were bare and open to the air and then to his lips. His fingers still knew what it felt like to slip inside the top or the bottom of her panties and to move through her soft curls until he parted her folds to make her slick and wild and passionate.
But Paul never took those panties down and spread her beautiful legs and pounded into her for all he was worth. She was very definite in those days about saving herself for the man she married, on her wedding night. And in high school, he was not about to propose marriage. Nor was he married yet; the one proposal he had made to a woman was turned down, probably wisely.
Paul had idly thought in the high-school days that her name had worked against his going all the way with her. If it hadn't been for some smart-asses deliberately pronouncing her last name a little off, well, maybe she would have done it.
Though maybe not.
They had a fight about a month before the senior prom. He didn't now recall who she went to that with; Paul went with a girl he had first dated in that last month and balled after two weeks. He had not seen Ellen Fox since graduation, seven years before.
She was dressed tonight in a sort of denim cowboy top, laced up the front, and a pair of very short denim cut-offs. Her legs were obviously still great.
As he walked up to the bar, she glanced up and looked puzzled for a second, then gave me a big grin and said: "Hello, Paul, it's been a long time!"
The other patrons of the bar glanced up at him, but they did not recognize his face and they looked away again. Paul took a stool and asked for a rum and cola.
There were not many people in the place tonight, but there were enough that it took most of the three hours until closing, at two in the morning, for the two of them to fully talk about what they had done since high school. Usually Ellen shared the bar duties with the man who owned the place, but he was out sick tonight -- though if the usual crowd had been expected, he would have been there anyway, most likely.
If the owner had been there, their talking would have finished earlier and with fewer interruptions for business, but other things might have worked out differently too, very likely. Paul would have had less reason to stay until closing.
He told Ellen that he had been working for Planet Construction for three years now, two of them out of town.
Not as a construction worker, exactly; the job, the first one, was called site drafting assistant and was an odds-and-ends thing, half on job sites and half in offices, that required knowing enough about plans to explain them to different sorts of people.
