She always seems to be there when I need her the most.
Usually after polite business hours. Long after the work day is done. And all the lame amateurs have finally cleared the bar, leaving better room for higher proof regulars to finally relax. There are, after all, only so many straight-billed, Coors Ultra downing douchebags a person can tolerate in a single 517 evening.
She breezed right in on that random DeWitt Saturday.
It was a slow night. And I probably should have taken advantage of the quieter vibe and moved closer to continue our conversation from before.
But I like watching her from a distance. Not in some creepy, stalkery way. But because that’s just what typewriting foxes do, having learned it is often better to imitate the behaviour of wildlife photographers when interacting with members of the opposite sex.
Observe; don’t interfere. No butt stuff. Let them approach you. But only if they choose to. Details should be collected from the safety of the periphery. The captivating ones, that other, more obnoxiously inebriated patrons tend to overlook.
Like how she stirs her drink. Usually with a high crossed knee pressing up against the bar. Or how cute her nose wrinkles when politely stifling a yawn. And the genuine joy on her face when the pull tabs play nice and give her a win. Even if it’s just a couple of bucks.
It always makes me wonder how she looks smiling over sleepy morning time coffee.
Most of the testosterone-fueled flies hunting in the bar focus only on the outside package. The beautiful blonde wrappings framing flawless skin. The often bare midriff that elicits naughty thoughts—I admittedly considered dedicating the next book to that particular view.
But I don’t want to make things weird.
In a clustering fuck of a flyover town choking on staggering mediocrity, she is the one bright light amongst all the Clinton County dial tone gloom. And genuinely, the most beautiful girl I have seen since moving up to this godforsaken sea of broken roads. This unforgiving orange barrelled insanity that is the butthole of middle Michigan.
I can’t help myself; I adore watching the way her mind works. The brain that’s wicked smart. And penetratingly observant. The one capturing and cataloging all the details around her—when she talks with people, she hears everything. Even the words they don’t actually say.
She is also the only soul gracious enough to call me by my proper Irish name. Objectively, a simple social pleasantry. But one which means a great deal to me. It almost makes me feel proud of the man that I was once, back in those more dangerous greener years. And honestly, hearing her say it always gets me a little hard.
So I distract myself from naughty intentions by watching her watch others. Studying her from my corner of the bar. That little space where I feel safe with my back to the wall and one eye on the door.
From that unobstructed vantage point, I clearly see that she carries stories of her own. But guards them well. Cleverly deflecting her own vulnerabilities by getting others to talk about theirs. Not because she is a busybody barfly gossip. But because she is genuinely interested in the people around her.
Survivors have a unique ability to sniff one another out. And I see that survivor, in those moments unguarded and reflected, in the bar back mirror. That gentle, generous heart burdened with carrying something… heavy.
I feel a kind of emotional kinship towards her. Everything up to this point has demonstrated that I can trust her—she has already read the raw words confessing some of my worst secrets. And still somehow finds it possible to smile at me.
But I want to know her stories, too.
Not to callously exploit them for literary shenanigans. And certainly not to gain access to her simmering arousal. I want to know because she once cared enough to sit and talk with me on a dark night. One of those rare evenings when I found myself vulnerable. And in need of a connection to someone.
So it is important that she understands that I care about her right the fuck back.
And that she matters, too.
I refuse to allow her to get lost in the mediocrity. And I am nothing if not a determined little ramp 🦊. So I will do my very best to just… appreciate her.
And listen back.
The next time our paths cross, maybe I will even sit beside her…
