She ended up blessing me.
And all I did was buy her a pizza. With an accompanying pint.
At the time, it seemed like a fair deal. So I was happy to make the investment.
She dropped into the bar when I was already several rounds in. It was just another typical Saturday Old Town night. One spent feeling sorry for myself. Because after a week of having been benched after punching that fucking airplane, the threat of other winged monsters arriving on the morrow loomed large.
And I wasn’t sure if I was prepared for that challenge.
So I occupied myself by punishing my brain with doses of liquid poison. Downing rounds like it was my new job. Because at least that was a hurt a feral fox brain was capable of understanding.
Unlike when airplanes fall from the sky.
Because that fucking hurt.
And still seems shockingly surreal.
I was too many rounds down when she breezed up on a wicked November wind. A red velvet jacket hiding a slim frame. Delicate fingers flipping pages of a book while waiting patiently for her order. And then later, guiding a pen scribbling her secrets into a journal when inspiration finally hit her.
Even from a few stools away, I was already invested in the story. Not just because she was outstandingly beautiful. But because she was reading a fucking book. In an Old Town bar. On a random Michigan Saturday night.
As a writer, that seemed… significant. But I didn’t want to interfere with her evening. Or somehow come across as that stereotypical lecherous guy out on the hunt. Because, well, that’s gross. And represents the antithesis of what I have always tried to represent.
So I let her read in peace, while stealing selfish glances.
I watched as she took that picture of the twinkle lights attached to the ceiling; I watched as she scribbled private words in her journal. I took note of her thoughtful expressions as she pondered the next words to write. And I genuinely wondered what kind of pen she was using. Because I have always been a bit of a stationery whore. And an absolute sucker for a good pen.
More than anything, I admired the fearlessness with which she followed the ideas inside her head. And how she chose to chase those words, despite the clattering noise of the bar. Capturing her secrets indelibly on the page. Documenting the totality of her experience.
It made me wonder what she was writing.
But I didn’t want to press. Or, interrupt.
So I simply picked up her check.
And sat on that secret until she was ready to pay.
She was admittedly a bit confused when her card was politely declined. And was gently reassured by the attentive bar staff that she was good.
That’s when I walked over to her. Told her straight that as a writer, I loved that she was reading a damn book. Then I boldly gave her one of my cards, just in case she wanted to read some of the words I had written. Even though I was terrified she might take me up on that offer.
Then she asked if she could hug me.
I couldn’t help but accept that offer.
It was the first time in a long time that someone has wanted to have me in their arms. But I had to fight the urge to cling to her too tightly. So I did my best to restrain myself to the politeness of the moment.
She smiled at me when she was walking out. Thanked me again for my generosity.
And then she blessed me.
It wasn’t until she was already gone that I realized I never properly introduced myself. So unfortunately, she remains a beautiful stranger.
I can only hope that she finds these words. And trusts in me enough to maybe reach out.
Because I would really like to buy her another round.
And maybe learn her preferred pen damn name…
