The air is thick with the
scent of cigarettes. He is no stranger to it, it is a typical aroma in this
town.
The pianist on the small
platform at the end of the room plays a slow, rhythmic piece. His notes are
punctuated by the laughter of a group of businessmen huddled in the corner,
cracking jokes amongst each other as they take lengthy puffs from their Embassy
Filters.
He rubs the surface of
the oak bar with a linen cloth, wiping away the random drops of liquor leftover
from the glasses of earlier clients. Over a white shirt he wears a black vest
and a red tie, his hair is slicked back, and his composure is firm.
Two old timers sit at
opposite ends of the bar. One of them gets up and leaves a crumpled dollar
bill, glass nearly empty.
He takes the bill and empties the left-over gin, then proceeds to wipe the glass clean with a linen cloth.
Out of the corner of his
eye he sees a figure approaching the bar. He turns to see a woman wearing a dark
business suit. Her eyes are rimmed with stress.
“What will it be?” He
asks her as he rubs the glass dry.
“Make it a screwdriver”
she says as she takes a seat at the bar.
He nods and places the
now dry glass back onto the shelf.
He grabs a new, narrow
one, and fills it two thirds of the way up with ice cubes. He adds an ounce of
Smirnoff and tops it off with a flush of fresh orange juice. He stirs it healthily, then places it on a
thin plate and brings it over to her.
“Enjoy," he says.
“Thank you.”
She stirs it a little bit
more and takes a small sip, then lets out a soft sigh.
She continues to take minute sips from the
glass, then pulls out a cigarette and searches for her lighter.
“Ma’am?” He asks her as
he slides one out from his breast pocket.
“Thanks.”
As he leans over to flick
on the flame, he notices that she has on a thin layer of lipstick with a pair
of round, dark earrings. There is a string of grey amidst her hair.
“Long day?” he asks as he pulls back.
She smiles a little as
she takes a lengthy drag from her filter.
“You get used to it,” a
small pause, “and you?”
Her voice is tired but undeniably firm, it
carries the ring of one which has been honed through countless hours of
sycophantic corporate interactions.
He picks up a dry glass
to wipe it. “The usual, a little quiet this time of the year.”
She nods, then turns to
face the pianist, who has moved on to Gershwin’s Embraceable You.
Her eyes reflect the
pensive notes that begin to play out. One arm rests on the oak bar, and the
other hangs off the edge of her chair. She lets the cigarette dangle between
her fingers, he notices a diamond ring.
Maniacal laughter erupts from
the corner; he turns to see the businessmen doubled over, banging on the table
as their gaping mouths inhale the thick smoke of their cigarettes.
They fade out of focus as
he sees her head lean forward ever so slightly, as if drawn in by the music.
Her shoulders loosen up, her eyes slowly slide shut.
The dim, warm light gives
her contemplative face a statuesque touch.
Amidst the stench of
processed tobacco, he notices something –
a sweet smell, like a
luscious vapor which has sliced through the smoke.
He follows the scent until
it rests, undeniably, on her.
He puts the dry glass
back into its place.
He hesitates for a second.
Then, as if forced by an
invisible hand, he places his fist firmly on the polished, oak bar.
His vest stretches slightly as he
leans forward towards her.
He closes his eyes and
breathes in.
It is honey with a tinge
of cinnamon, topped off with a trace of melted vanilla. It carries a warmth to
it, like a fire being kindled in a cozy cabin in the snowy wilderness.
The sounds of the bar
have faded away, the darkness is punctuated by a sole stream of light on the
two of them.
As the scent flows
through him, he sees a house in the countryside,
far from the polluted tendrils of the city.
He sees children running
in the wheat fields as the setting sun floods the sky with a dazzling orange.
He sees smiling.
He sees a beaut—
He hears clapping.
He opens his eyes.
His vest loosens as he
takes his clenched fist off the polished oak.
The darkness disappears, and
the sounds of the bar fade back in.
The pianist plays out the
last remaining notes of his piece, then whispers: "thank you," to the
businessmen who are clapping their hands as they nod with approval.
He picks up the dry glass
to continue wiping it.
Her eyes slowly open as
she raises her head to take one final puff from her cigarette, then she turns
to face him.
The ends of her lips go
up lightly in an affable fashion, it is almost a smile. He returns the
favor.
He watches her as she
exits the hotel. As she disappears through the revolving doors, he picks up the
linen cloth, wets it ever so slightly under the sink, then proceeds to wipe
down the oak bar.
