She had broken his heart again. He knew this time he would never be whole. It was one of those things similar to losing one of your senses and the lesson he took from this last time was that there's no sense in love.
He's at the bar. Dive away from home. He doesn't want to run into anyone he knows. Not tonight. He's sitting on a stool slightly off center. There are a half dozen other souls, just as broken. This had become their communal fortress of solitude long ago. Time has worn their laughter into cackles and their voices are worn in as they trade pieces of their lives with each other, aimlessly.
His back is slouched, elbows on the bar. He's peering at the bottom shelf of liquor. The mirror behind it gives an illusion of plenty and of depth. He's staring as if he's given up on finding answers.
Glossy black stilettos walk into the bar. Her dress is skin tight. She's got her leather on where she keeps her black Prada wallet. Everyone looks her way, only a couple stop and stare. It's like this everywhere she goes through, and there's always one or two who like to roll the dice. But it's snake eyes tonight. She's aware of them but doesn't give them the time of day. It's the one at the bar, the one that didn't care enough to see the fuss walk in that has her attention. She knows a tormented soul when she sees one and she knows what torment can do.
She walks to the end of the bar. The bartender follows and she orders an old fashioned and the big bald man comes up saying, "Drinks on me tonight."
"Buzz off," she says.
Dean takes a look, and then a second look before deciding he's in no mood to try. He knows he won't be for a long time after this.
But he looked. He looked twice and she saw it. She takes the seat so there's an empty stool between them. They're both looking towards the shelves without a word between them. He knows she's watching him even though she's not. She knows he's doing the same. A minute goes by. He picks up his drink and takes a sip. She glances and does the same. Another minute.
Both of them could feel each other there. The silent attention is visible by any of the other empty souls that look their way. To each other, their presence is palpable. A magnetic current emanating between them however mild.
He gives her a slight sideways nod, she looks, then he says, "Not much for company tonight."
Her chin's almost resting on her shoulder as she replies, "I can tell," before turning back to her drink.
He'd have let it be at that, but her lack of denial tugs at him although he pushes it aside. He downs his drink, and taps on his glass with two fingers and the bartender obliges.
The bartender's still holding the bottle as he turns to the girl asking, "You want another."
A brief moment of thought before she nods her head. He makes it in the same glass with a heavier pour. "Your tab?" he asks looking to Dean.
A tired sigh. Then, "Sure."
"Buy me a drink, now I'm obliged to talk to you," she says running her red polished fingertip around the rim of her glass without looking at him.
"Or maybe you're obliged to stay quiet."
Men don't get away with talking to her like that. At least not usually. But she's been here before.
The world's feeling a little lighter to Dean now. He's looking at her through the mirrored wall. Not really looking at her but this shell she's brought with her. She lets him. He's starting to feel better about himself. She lets him making sure it doesn't come up too far or she'll leave.
He reaches into his back pocket. She pockets her wallet. He throws some bills on the table and walks towards the exit. She's watching; feeling eyes on her and it makes her stomach turn. She flushes but no one notices under the red bar lights and it makes it run even deeper. He stops right before the exit for an instant, then walks out the door. She gets up and follows.
When she makes it out his cigarettes already lit and the little, gold colored cardboard box is open as he holds it out towards her. She takes one and their eyes meet for the first time but only for an instant. Another flush, a slight flexing in his gut.
"Where we going?" she asks.
"Yours," he says.
They stand apart finishing their smokes when their ride arrives.
The driver can feel it too. The smell of liquor and smoke, the silence that must remain.
They pull up. It's a nicer place than he expected. They see each other for the first time under bright lights as they wait for the elevator. They're just what they need.
On the ride up he asks, "Live alone?"
Her legs rub together just a bit as she's looking ahead at the door. He's looking at her now, but there's no response.
"Alright," he says with a monotone gruff in his voice.
He's watching her now as she opens her door. They step inside.
He turns her around and pulls her in, hand on the small of her back.
She puts a hand on his chest and softly says, "Not yet."
His eyebrows raise as he lets her go and watches her walk away. She disappears down the hallway and he stands in her living room taking it in for a moment, the tidiness of the place, the little luxuries, before he follows.
By the time he reaches her bedroom, she's walking into her bathroom. She shuts the door behind her. Her room is pristine. There's a vanity mirror with expensive perfumes. He tries to remember if she has a smell, but it eludes him as he sits on her bed, facing the door. He hears the toilet flush and the running water being turned off.
She struts out and stands in front of the bathroom in a wide stance and a gleam in her eye. But that's not what catches his attention. In fact the first thing he looks at when she steps out is her hair; bunched up in two little ropes are pigtails.
He's never liked pigtails. In fact he finds them a turn off but before the thought of leaving could finish itself she walks over to him. She looks down at him as if to size him up. His head is tilting as he looks up at her, eyebrows scrunching. There's only the smell of cigarettes and liquor.
She's still wearing her stilettos and she turns on her heel and walks over to the vanity. A drawer opens, the sound of wood knocking as it reaches it's end is somewhat loud in the quiet room, though it's somewhat muffled through drunken ears.
She pulls out a small wooden box and pulls out a mirror and a little baggie of white powder. Dean recognizes it. He's been clean for over a year now. Then again, he'd been sober too. Little white lines are drawn on the mirror and she bends over and snorts twice.
His jaw juts then clenches as he watches her. She tilts her head back and snorts some more, plugging one nostril at a time. She hands him the straw, and he looks at her with disgust. She smiles for the first time.
She brings the mirror over and sits beside him. There's disdain in his face as he looks down at the little mirror, the ceiling behind the reflection. Then he bends down and snorts.
She puts down the mirror and she takes his face and starts to kiss him. For a moment he just lets her. Then he kisses her back. They're passionate deep kisses. Not quite what he was expecting.
But then his hands are all over her. Squeezing at her breasts, feeling down her waist through the thin stretchy cotton before making his way to her back and pulling down the zipper.
