Women his age didn't arouse Severin. He laughed at the calumny which would box his ears if he ever stated that among a crowd of females who shared his vintage years. The truth is prized until it becomes painful.
Severin was in his early 50s. Single still. Single apparently for the rest of his life. The only woman he ever considered pledging troth and exchanging vows refused meeting him halfway. Liz. That was 30 years ago. Her absence from his side ached into his own 30s.
They'd crossed paths again at a recent reunion. Life's bookends had drained Liz. Her husband, whose children she bore, to whom she uncomplainingly obliged wifely duties, the man she met halfway, ultimately fell out of love with her. Then he dumped her.
Was that ironic? Or merely karmic. Or simply just.
Severin ought have empathized. Maybe in some romance novel the absent years would've dissolved, the distance closed, and their old attraction should've had them in another's arms. Again.
Everything might've been wrapped up in a neat gauzy, feel-good conclusion about love smoldering forever. What a wheeze. Instead, he'd been numbed by the long past incessant pain. Rather than mouth something comforting, he coolly dismissed her misfortune.
"Well, baby, you should've married the man who loved you more than the man you wanted."
Liz' reaction didn't matter. He knew she hurt. Deeply. He liked the idea of dropping cruelty upon those deserving it. His words would bother her until senility or death. Excellent. Her denial of affection for the young Severin had allowed his injury to fester. Then the fever broke. Given her age and reduced resilience, now she'd suffer. Far more than he had. He'd recuperated. Her pain would accompany her to the grave. Good.
Liz. Liz?
What dredged up and brought her to the forefront? There he'd been occupying a comfortable spot at the Hannacroix bar, enjoying the second of however many martinis, all the while eyeing -- and being eyed -- by all manner of lovelies, and Liz discolored his rosy view.
Older now, establishments like the Hannacroix suited Severin better than the cooler addresses renowned with vibes at which he previously tippled. Growing from coltishness into maturity, Severin realized he gained greater exchanges from more secure women. At least outwardly serene. These creatures knew what they wanted and how it should be gotten. As well as given. These days, he found their younger sisters frequently sought his approval before deciding they also shared his favor.
Had Severin been into power, such deferrals might've proven better than the eventual sex. Instead he preferred pleasure minus the weak man's boost.
Dusk and the end of the workweek transformed the Hannacroix into a low murmuring, glancing melange where an occasional womanly peel of laughter emphasized future hushed promises. Men wore sports jackets and slacks. Stately restraint sheathed and shod women. Nothing baggy, shredded, faded, or outrageous. The mood was cool, not chill.
Brunettes outnumbered blondes -- real and bottled -- and redheads. As fortune had it, Severin attracted blondes. A few blonde-mad friends envied him his lucky-bastard fortune. But Severin found brunettes more responsive. Of course he desired redheads. Gingers, perhaps intuiting his taste, tortured him by withholding their charms.
Liz was a redhead. The last time they met she'd tinted away her gray with some brassy compound. If they'd spent those lost decades together, Severin knew he never would've noticed.
Hannacroix cocktails and environment regained force and shoved Liz' memory into afterthought. Severin had kept loose tabs on three later-evening possibilities. Two dark beauties were almost directly across from him but in separate clutches of girls night trios, while the third availed diagonally in a yappy quartet. The rhythm of their eye contacts couldn't have been better choreographed on purpose. His eyes swiveled while theirs bobbed.
Choosing one and making his interest plain needed a bit more for-show chatter and nervously imbibed drinks on their parts. He also needed draining his own No. 2 and replenish it with a cheering No. 3.
Involved in the game, really playing it now, reminded Severin of his 20s and 30s. Then he was an uncontrolled hose splashing everywhere. Now he confidently directed the stream. He smiled to himself. He knew friends who'd chuckle at his analogy.
One of the pair across the bar saw Severin's grin and replied in response. Dark red lipstick brightened her already wide smile. She made herself an early favorite for his utmost attentions and affections.
Commotion ambled towards Severin. She dented his buzz, and altered his plans.
Under a helmet of midnight bangs, round eyes, and a glowing cherry vanilla mouth, that above a dress which adhered to her curves, an ample handful approached him familiarly. She accosted Severin. The everything going on somewhere in her still vital 40s woman introduced herself.
Delphine.
Severin thought she tottered on her heels, but that was just the way she walked. She reminded him of an exaggeration. A fertility doll come alive.
'This must be who teen-age boys dream about when they think about their first prostitute,' he mused.
Delphine extended a hand whose bangle-cluttered wrist rattled. Severin intercepted hers; she soul-squeezed his. Despite Delphine's enthusiasm, Severin failed remembering her. He felt he should've been embarrassed and wondered how many years had passed since, well, who knew what they'd done where and how often. Delphine erased the gap.
Seeing his confusion, Delphine said, "We've never met."
A statement which added to his confusion.
Releasing his hand, she began running palms along his person. Delphine started at his chest, under the jacket lapels along his shirt.
"Oh, big man," she cooed, squeezing his dense pecs, "you are in shape. Handsome, too."
Before continuing handling the rest of Severin's upper torso, Delphine tweaked his nipples. Her playfulness excited them and him. His solidity more than his bulk pleased her.
"I love your shirt," she said. "It caught my eye. Then I saw you in it. And I just had to ..."
Delphine surprised him further when she ventured below his beltline. His lower topography exceeded her expectations. More so when his cock began to stir and stiffen. Her grip surpassed her grasp. The stranger's frisk ought have discomforted Severin but he sensed she confirmed more rather than explored.
"It's salmon, isn't it?" she asked.
She'd lost Severin. "Huh?"
"Your shirt. Salmon."
He couldn't name the color. Or the material for that matter. All Severin knew it contrasted nicely against his dark sports coat.
"What are you doing here?" Delphine asked. "What am I doing here?"
Questions pointed and rhetorical died in the air between them.
Thorough pat down completed, Delphine breached true intimacy. She lurched forward, drew herself against him, and kissed Severin. Not a sisterly peck, but a full blown-out soul kiss. His own lips and tongue reflexively answered. He imagined they created a spectacle. He knew every woman watching them at Hannacroix envious.
That plumped his own ego.
Their embrace wasn't passionate, though very accommodating. Under his own hands and insistent upon him, Delphine was firm.
The interlude ended as abruptly as it began. An indignant man's voice broke the kissing couple's lips apart. He must have been Delphine's husband. He fit the husband mold. Dismay smeared his anger. Somehow regarding Severin as a nuisance and not a threat, he growled at his wife.
"What the fuck are you doing!?"
The spell that had befallen Delphine faded quickly. Severin chose then to be absent when she started perfuming her cockamamie. With little reluctance, he and his shirt released Delphine, eased from between man and wife, and skipped Hannacroix.
Outside the August night sidewalk bustled. Pedestrians respiration and body heat further moistened the atmosphere. None in the passing throng could imagine what had transpired. Severin chuckled in relief, a pretty good idea of the impending tumult escaped. Without a doubt those bending elbows inside preferred gaping at liplock than hearing loud marital discord. Severin knew he would.
Where to now?
Severin hadn't any contingency. Night and a hookup at Hannacroix was the plan. A good plan as it had succeeded on prior visits to this city. He meandered. Distracted pedestrians jostled him. There had been a time when he could've counted himself among the careless and carefree along this promenade. A "plan" would have hindered him. Beers everywhere, and a babe collected somewhere along the way. Organic instead of calculated.
He'd been visiting Montreal since adolescence. First accompanying his parents, then afterwards on college breaks, winter and summer, and finally as a responsible working taxpayer. Fun really began when he entered the last phase. That Severin had real discretionary income and no earnest disinclinations. Two attributes which attracted women who had yet to develop severe reservations.
Severin didn't miss all that much from his 20s and 30s. At times though remembering the lightness of those years occasionally draped him in a heavy shade. Aimless steps brought him to a familiar stretch of businesses.
Noise rumbled from inside each entry. One or two venues offered shattering live music. He wondered how many years until jarring aural neon started hurting his ears. Severin snickered at his encroaching crankiness. Luckily he'd never own property whose lawn demanded expelling kids.
Severin gazed at Cafe Chaos. Compact confines. Low tin-pressed ceiling. Made more raucous through poor acoustics. He'd forgotten the name of its previous incarnation. Didn't matter. New name, same everything else.
Decades distant drunken hours there further addled by skull crunching rock might've been memorable if he'd recalled more than snatches. Phosphorescent flashes, yes, though not enough for completely lucid recollections. On the playbill he eyed the band roster still scheduled to perform that night. Too many angry groups who hadn't arrived at their disillusionment honestly. Young adults today posed with greater petulance than fury.
Surely the previous youthquake claimed the same about his own generation.
Just beyond Café Chaos beckoned Lucky Strike. Probably the mellowest address offered among the entire entertainment strip. Compared to the street's other honky-tonks, Lucky Strike served lithium from the tap instead of straight-up rattlesnake juice. Severin thought Lucky Strike made a fine respite until he sorted himself out.
Either mellower than remembered or the crowd more sober than his prior visits, Severin entered a Lucky Strike reflective of "after." Of post-tumult. That thankful breather and subsequent meditation resulting from an intense social sequence.
Severin was sorry he missed it. These days only presented him incredulous memories. A downside of maturity he didn't rue.
For the late hour, Lucky Strike was well lighted for a bar. Any brighter and patrons would've been herded towards the exits. An hour remained before last call. Full banquettes steered him to a vacant table.
A waitress hurried over and swept a slop rag across mica. Young and harried by the evening she mistook him for some kind of authority. Maybe a liquor control board inspector. He watched possible infractions shade her face.
A martini incongruous in Lucky Strike, Severin ordered a big-armed drink rather than flash tin. That did nothing to calm his perceived menace. She scurried away to warn management and fill his rum & coke request.
Severin understood the waitress' apprehension. Gray snowing his temples and character lines on his face suggested him at least a good 20 years older than other tipplers. Their self-absorption left him beneath notice.
He missed those days when the world revolved around him.
