Post by Jaysie on Jun 18, 2003 16:56:15 GMT -5
I am running through the forest. Something is chasing me. I don’t know what it is, so I run faster. Then the trail stops. It’s a cliff and I am falling faster than I was running and then I wake to the phone ringing. I answer with an unconscious fog in my voice, that breathy, first few words of the day, voice. “Hello?” I stretch my lower extremities all the way down to my toes, pointing at the sun who is waving at me through my window.
“It’s nine o’clock,” simple words and a soft voice that delivered me waves of joy. For one second, I was eight years old again. I just had walked in the door from school, and began kicking off my shoes. That’s when I smell cookies baking… chocolate chip cookies. I drop my backpack and take the stairs three at a time until I crashed in my Grandma’s hug having slid halfway across the tiled floor in my socks. His voice, so sweet, like choclate chip cookies wakes me in a smile.
“Mmmm,” I reply, more to the feeling he brings than to the man on the phone. I cover my eyes with the back of my hand and am glad that it is a sunny morning.
“What are you doing,” I inquire as I begin to shrug the sleep out of my bones.
“Waiting for Tuesday night,” he replies with a smile in his voice. I laugh as I rub my eyes again. I throw the pillow next to me across the room, as if I am throwing it at him. It lands softly on the floor just beyond the foot of the bed. I prop myself up and then peel back the covers to let the sunshine warm my skin.
“I am always waiting for Tuesday,” I admit earnestly. I do not wait for a reply before I continue, “Thank you for the wake up call”.
“It’s a beautiful day. Enjoy it,” he tells me and I know that he means it.
“I will… goodbye, Ben,” I set phone back in its cradle next to my bed. I swing my feet off the bed and stretch one more time for good measure. I run my fingers through my hair, wishing I had not gone to sleep with it wet. I grab a hair-tie off of my nightstand and begin to harness my matted hair in it and notice the oddity displayed in my reflection before me. I had been cursing my hair on this Wednesday morning, but find myself still dressed in the Tuesday night smile I wear for him. I laugh at my own face of infatuation and stumble through sunny days.
******************************************************************************************
“Tie me,” I ask of Michelle, as she is drying her hands on her jeans. She takes my apron and pulls it tightly around my waist. She jerks it tighter a few times and tells me “You’re late”. She loops my apron and stands back.
“You noticed,” I reply without a bit of remorse.
“It looks pretty busy for a Tuesday night,” she informs me. I nod as I straighten my apron, then dig my hands into its deepest pocket. They emerge to hide behind my back.
“Pick a hand,” I demand of her. I always demand a hand and she always picks left. We still play out the charade. We both say “left” as I simultaneously reveal the peppermint gum in my left hand.
As she is unwrapping the gum she tells me, “He’s here already, you know”. I only smile in her rolling eyes as I hold the stockroom door open for her to exit in front of me. Michelle sets up the cutting board to slice fruit garnishes and I grab a towel and bound away from the bar.
“Go get ‘em, Tiger,” Michelle call dryly after me. I look back long enough at roll my eyes at her as I approach the nearest table. I am wiping under all the glasses and tucking the empty bottles in the crook of my right arm as I inquire if they need another round. I am still wiping the table in circular motions as the gentleman on my left rattles off a short list. My pen and notepad remain untouched in my back pocket. I have grown accustomed to filling orders without writing them down on Tuesday nights. Writing them down would require me to divert my eyes from the back corner of the bar. Eyes fixed for hours, where the lights over the pool table throw a pink hue over the entire corner that makes everything look prettier. From there, he watches me work.
I wind my way slowly through the bar, tidying tables and tucking in chairs until I have painted myself into his pink corner. This night, I know everyone in this corner. I relinquish my arms of my job into the garbage can hidden in the corner, to pass out proper hellos and hugs to my friends and regulars. John comments he hasn’t seen me in weeks. I remind him, “I am here every Tuesday. You know where to find me.”
He reminds me, “I’m over here,” as I realize I’m still looking in the wrong direction. Having the indiscretion announced by anyone else would have brought a blush to my face, but with John it is rewarded with a kiss on the cheek. He nods over his shoulder and directs me “Go on”. I do.
Slowly I walk up to him, sitting on a stool so he matches my height. Slower is his creeping smile.
“Happy Tuesday,” he tells me.
“It is,” I answer, touching his knee lightly and quickly retracting my hand. He reciprocates by twirling the piece of hair that never fails to escape my ponytail and relentlessly frames my face.
“You’re hair is lighter,” he comments. The littlest things he always notices. The simplest way he acknowledges them always over power me. I reach up to reclaim my fugitive strand and barely mingle fingertips with him in the process.
“I am melting,” I admit. He pulls me into his arms into the friendliest of hugs and whispered, “You kissed John on the cheek”. The hug continues long beyond friendly as I demand to know what he intends to do about it. He lets go and I step away. I reach for the two nearest ashtrays on the ledge behind him and dump one into the other without breaking his stare.
“Behind the mirror?” he asks, although there is no question. Pretending that I do, in fact, have a choice in the matter, I glance at my watch and tell him I’ll be there in five minutes.
The bar’s layout is L-shaped. At the tip of the L is the DJ’s booth, flanked by a floor to ceiling mirror for symmetry. There is about eighteen inches between it and the back wall of the building. It is just enough room for the spare DJ equipment and two bodies.
I collect all the empty glasses I can on my hurried trip back to the bar. Michelle is reorganizing her full tray for better balance, as I arrive to unload my arms. She either knows me too well, or I have a very readable face. Intent on perfecting her tray, Michelle questions without looking at me “Stealing away already”? I laugh, nod and order two drinks from the bartender. She is still fidgeting with her order as I walk away. I take the longest route through the bar to the mirror, hoping if my boss had his eye on me, he would’ve lost me in the sea of people.
I cannot contain my smile as I slide around the corner into the perfect fit we have found. I hand him one of the two drinks. He sets it atop of an old speaker, then takes the other in my left hand and does the same with it. He folds me into his arms and breathes deep into my hair. We are touching each other’s faces and speaking in whispers.
“You are so beautiful tonight. I cannot take my eyes off of you,” I can barely hear him say, with his lips almost brushing my cheek.
“I know”.
“Do you want me to wake you tomorrow if it’s sunny” he asks. I give him a wordless answer as I kiss the tip of his nose and slide out from behind the mirror without another look. I bounce, overjoyed and energized, up to a random table. I watch him slip out from behind the mirror a moment later. The table I am at has completed their order and is most likely wondering why I am still standing there staring off to the pink corner. Ben hands John the two untouched drinks, looks over his shoulder and smiles at me. I watch him walk out the door, then finally turn away from a now perplexed table. I meet Michelle back at the waitress station.
“So?” she asks, gray eyes flashing with questions.
“So what?” I retort, attempting defensive, but still wearing the smile he has given me.
“Did you kiss him yet?”
“On the nose,” I blush, love-struck.
“How long are you going to keep this up?” she demands exasperated after weeks of the same routine. I shrug my shoulders as I walk back into the crowd.
*******************************************************************************************
“Can you tie my apron,” I ask Michelle. She tosses her cigarette on the floor and steps on it before grabbing my apron strings. She tugs too hard, as always, then informs me, “I hate working Thursdays”. I glance through the little window in the stockroom door to the over-crowded bar and agree, “Me, too.”
“I miss Tuesdays nights. They were so much more fun,” she whines whimsically. I offer her my best plastic Thursday smile and say, “It hasn’t been Tuesday night in four months”.
“It’s nine o’clock,” simple words and a soft voice that delivered me waves of joy. For one second, I was eight years old again. I just had walked in the door from school, and began kicking off my shoes. That’s when I smell cookies baking… chocolate chip cookies. I drop my backpack and take the stairs three at a time until I crashed in my Grandma’s hug having slid halfway across the tiled floor in my socks. His voice, so sweet, like choclate chip cookies wakes me in a smile.
“Mmmm,” I reply, more to the feeling he brings than to the man on the phone. I cover my eyes with the back of my hand and am glad that it is a sunny morning.
“What are you doing,” I inquire as I begin to shrug the sleep out of my bones.
“Waiting for Tuesday night,” he replies with a smile in his voice. I laugh as I rub my eyes again. I throw the pillow next to me across the room, as if I am throwing it at him. It lands softly on the floor just beyond the foot of the bed. I prop myself up and then peel back the covers to let the sunshine warm my skin.
“I am always waiting for Tuesday,” I admit earnestly. I do not wait for a reply before I continue, “Thank you for the wake up call”.
“It’s a beautiful day. Enjoy it,” he tells me and I know that he means it.
“I will… goodbye, Ben,” I set phone back in its cradle next to my bed. I swing my feet off the bed and stretch one more time for good measure. I run my fingers through my hair, wishing I had not gone to sleep with it wet. I grab a hair-tie off of my nightstand and begin to harness my matted hair in it and notice the oddity displayed in my reflection before me. I had been cursing my hair on this Wednesday morning, but find myself still dressed in the Tuesday night smile I wear for him. I laugh at my own face of infatuation and stumble through sunny days.
******************************************************************************************
“Tie me,” I ask of Michelle, as she is drying her hands on her jeans. She takes my apron and pulls it tightly around my waist. She jerks it tighter a few times and tells me “You’re late”. She loops my apron and stands back.
“You noticed,” I reply without a bit of remorse.
“It looks pretty busy for a Tuesday night,” she informs me. I nod as I straighten my apron, then dig my hands into its deepest pocket. They emerge to hide behind my back.
“Pick a hand,” I demand of her. I always demand a hand and she always picks left. We still play out the charade. We both say “left” as I simultaneously reveal the peppermint gum in my left hand.
As she is unwrapping the gum she tells me, “He’s here already, you know”. I only smile in her rolling eyes as I hold the stockroom door open for her to exit in front of me. Michelle sets up the cutting board to slice fruit garnishes and I grab a towel and bound away from the bar.
“Go get ‘em, Tiger,” Michelle call dryly after me. I look back long enough at roll my eyes at her as I approach the nearest table. I am wiping under all the glasses and tucking the empty bottles in the crook of my right arm as I inquire if they need another round. I am still wiping the table in circular motions as the gentleman on my left rattles off a short list. My pen and notepad remain untouched in my back pocket. I have grown accustomed to filling orders without writing them down on Tuesday nights. Writing them down would require me to divert my eyes from the back corner of the bar. Eyes fixed for hours, where the lights over the pool table throw a pink hue over the entire corner that makes everything look prettier. From there, he watches me work.
I wind my way slowly through the bar, tidying tables and tucking in chairs until I have painted myself into his pink corner. This night, I know everyone in this corner. I relinquish my arms of my job into the garbage can hidden in the corner, to pass out proper hellos and hugs to my friends and regulars. John comments he hasn’t seen me in weeks. I remind him, “I am here every Tuesday. You know where to find me.”
He reminds me, “I’m over here,” as I realize I’m still looking in the wrong direction. Having the indiscretion announced by anyone else would have brought a blush to my face, but with John it is rewarded with a kiss on the cheek. He nods over his shoulder and directs me “Go on”. I do.
Slowly I walk up to him, sitting on a stool so he matches my height. Slower is his creeping smile.
“Happy Tuesday,” he tells me.
“It is,” I answer, touching his knee lightly and quickly retracting my hand. He reciprocates by twirling the piece of hair that never fails to escape my ponytail and relentlessly frames my face.
“You’re hair is lighter,” he comments. The littlest things he always notices. The simplest way he acknowledges them always over power me. I reach up to reclaim my fugitive strand and barely mingle fingertips with him in the process.
“I am melting,” I admit. He pulls me into his arms into the friendliest of hugs and whispered, “You kissed John on the cheek”. The hug continues long beyond friendly as I demand to know what he intends to do about it. He lets go and I step away. I reach for the two nearest ashtrays on the ledge behind him and dump one into the other without breaking his stare.
“Behind the mirror?” he asks, although there is no question. Pretending that I do, in fact, have a choice in the matter, I glance at my watch and tell him I’ll be there in five minutes.
The bar’s layout is L-shaped. At the tip of the L is the DJ’s booth, flanked by a floor to ceiling mirror for symmetry. There is about eighteen inches between it and the back wall of the building. It is just enough room for the spare DJ equipment and two bodies.
I collect all the empty glasses I can on my hurried trip back to the bar. Michelle is reorganizing her full tray for better balance, as I arrive to unload my arms. She either knows me too well, or I have a very readable face. Intent on perfecting her tray, Michelle questions without looking at me “Stealing away already”? I laugh, nod and order two drinks from the bartender. She is still fidgeting with her order as I walk away. I take the longest route through the bar to the mirror, hoping if my boss had his eye on me, he would’ve lost me in the sea of people.
I cannot contain my smile as I slide around the corner into the perfect fit we have found. I hand him one of the two drinks. He sets it atop of an old speaker, then takes the other in my left hand and does the same with it. He folds me into his arms and breathes deep into my hair. We are touching each other’s faces and speaking in whispers.
“You are so beautiful tonight. I cannot take my eyes off of you,” I can barely hear him say, with his lips almost brushing my cheek.
“I know”.
“Do you want me to wake you tomorrow if it’s sunny” he asks. I give him a wordless answer as I kiss the tip of his nose and slide out from behind the mirror without another look. I bounce, overjoyed and energized, up to a random table. I watch him slip out from behind the mirror a moment later. The table I am at has completed their order and is most likely wondering why I am still standing there staring off to the pink corner. Ben hands John the two untouched drinks, looks over his shoulder and smiles at me. I watch him walk out the door, then finally turn away from a now perplexed table. I meet Michelle back at the waitress station.
“So?” she asks, gray eyes flashing with questions.
“So what?” I retort, attempting defensive, but still wearing the smile he has given me.
“Did you kiss him yet?”
“On the nose,” I blush, love-struck.
“How long are you going to keep this up?” she demands exasperated after weeks of the same routine. I shrug my shoulders as I walk back into the crowd.
*******************************************************************************************
“Can you tie my apron,” I ask Michelle. She tosses her cigarette on the floor and steps on it before grabbing my apron strings. She tugs too hard, as always, then informs me, “I hate working Thursdays”. I glance through the little window in the stockroom door to the over-crowded bar and agree, “Me, too.”
“I miss Tuesdays nights. They were so much more fun,” she whines whimsically. I offer her my best plastic Thursday smile and say, “It hasn’t been Tuesday night in four months”.
