Summer in South Florida is its own kind of hell and that particular summer made me feel like I was paying for sins I had yet to commit.
The bar I worked at was tucked away off the tourists' beaten path. For them, the obnoxiousness, the pretentious affectations and the vapid Kardashian existence of the $800 bottles at the Miami Beach clubs. For us, the locals that knew better, there was the tank tops and cut-off jeans attitude of The Cottonmouth Lounge. We didn't have a dress code; we just hoped our patrons would remember to wear something.
That late afternoon was slow. The early crowd had already dropped by on their way to Key West and grumbling clouds were draping themselves around the sky above the bar. The ceiling fans futilely pushed at the stubborn, thick air, getting nowhere. I pulled myself a beer and stood in the doorway, watching the first fat drops come down, listening to the staccato pop on the roof. I leaned against the doorframe, happy to just be existing at this point in time. Yeah, a few more laugh lines (not wrinkles), a couple more gray hairs shooting their way through the black strands, but hey, that's all right. I made it to 45; lots of people had bet against that happening. Not too bad a body either. As long as you worked out, you could indulge in the ever-present Cuban food in this town.
I watched the sun feebly fight its way through the gloomy clouds; his day was almost done, so he didn't battle all that hard. As I turned to go in, a familiar buzzing sound crept into my ears. I'd worked at this place long enough to know the sexy growl of an approaching motorcycle. I waited as the sound grew louder and watched, scant minutes later, as a beautiful Heritage soft tail turned off the paved highway and made its way over the gravel. It came to a stop under the carport that had been set up as covered parking for the bikes.
The rider wore your standard black boots, jeans and jacket. However, when the helmet came off and the hair came tumbling out, it was more than evident that this was no tough biker dude.
She hurried towards the doorway before the serious downpour started, flashing me a smile as she passed.
"Great timing", I commented as she settled in at the empty counter and I slipped back behind the bar.
"Yeah, I raced those clouds the whole way here," she laughed, her honey-colored eyes dancing. "There's no way I'm making it to Key West tonight; it's going to get bad out there."
She took off her jacket and draped it over the back of her stool, revealing a white tank top and a swish of colorful shooting stars on her right shoulder.
"Nice work. Can I get you anything?" I asked, reaching automatically for a beer glass.
"Thanks, just got it done last week. Actually, no beer." She laughed out loud again as my hand hovered over the glasses and then dropped on one, drumming my fingers on it.
I laughed back, trying to gauge her order. Some people are obvious beer drinkers, others enjoy only whiskey. She was a tough one to call.
There was nothing about her that made me think that she spent any amount of time frequenting bars like The Cottonmouth. The tattoo and the bike seemed incongruous; despite the fact that she maneuvered it like a pro, she still wasn't the type you'd expect on one of those machines.
Her hair, now that it was fluffed out a bit, was perfectly cut, allowing her brown curls to cascade down her back in a thick mass. Her nails had recently received attention because the French manicure on them was intact. Her makeup, though minimal, had been flawlessly applied and the eyeliner especially had had special consideration. It really did bring out the shine in those eyes.
I suddenly felt self-conscious in my cut-off shorts, sneakers and Cottonmouth Lounge t-shirt. I was pretty sure my make-up was a distant memory thanks to the humidity in the bar. A glance at my own nails reminded me I was way overdue in seeing my own manicurist. I did not even want to think about my hair; the curls did not react well to the damp, thick air. I could possibly pass for an electrocuted poodle at this time of day.
She looked like she belonged in the back of a limo and I looked...well, like I belonged where I was, rag in hand, feet in a beer puddle.
"You know," she said, snapping me out of my ruminations, "how about a Palm Breeze? A little tropical pick-me-up due to the lovely weather."
"No problem. Want a splash of grenadine in that?" I inquired as I reached for the Malibu rum.
"Sure."
I mixed up the rum, orange and pineapple juices and splashed the grenadine. She smiled as I slid it over to her after I dropped in a cherry. No little umbrella or tiny plastic drink swords; this is the Cottonmouth. You were lucky the glasses were clean.
She hesitated before the first sip and looked over at me.
"Join me? Not a fan of drinking alone."
"Oh, why not? No one's going to be coming out tonight anyway," I replied, mixing up my own Breeze.
"Cheers," she touched her glass to mine.
"Salud," I responded, taking a sip of the fruity concoction. It went down deliciously cold, soothing on such a sticky day.
"I can't believe I finally got to this place. Everyone is always talking about it," she said, after her first drink.
"Yeah, we've been here a while. Popular with the bikers and the muscle car crowd."
"I can see why. It's got a nice chill vibe to it. I'm Stevie, by the way," she extended her hand towards me and I automatically shook it, hoping my hand wasn't too wet from when I washed it after making the drinks.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Amara, but just call me Amy."
"Amara? That's interesting. Really pretty."
"Thanks. I like Stevie. Makes me think of Fleetwood Mac."
