She would sit. Sit and be alone. Because she liked it. Because it was difficult. Because it was how it was supposed to be. Made no difference if it was a park, second to last seat of the downtown bus, middle of a crowded diner, following the upwards stroke of a brush along stretched canvas, renting from the last video joint in town, watching her toes wiggle, brown with teal painted toes against backyard blades.

Made no difference that night either, she thought, this time alone at a bar. Checked her watch and now he was an hour late, which she felt predicated being alone for the rest of the evening. Which in turn, made the loneliness something stranger. Rough patches along bar’s surface. Dim lights a darker expression of yellow. Sallow shade to her beer. That last bit easy enough to take care of, and she thought about what to order next.

Something in a whisky, maybe?

Hearing her thoughts manifested, Sable turned to find impossibly blue eyes peering from behind a curtain of blond curls. Four seats down. Drinking whiskey from a weighted glass. Fingers tapping against the rim. Left index and middle toying with the cocktail straw.

Sable drew a breath, felt the words coming from somewhere else, “What’s yours?”

“Just your classic Jack.” She smiled, slightly. “Want one?”

“Yeah. Ok, if we’re doing this, yes.”

Jack Daniels placed in front of her, and for some reason, the coaster’s colors popped. An image shot into her brain with the violent, honest luxury of the last time she’d slipped her lips along another woman’s tongue.

Sable raised her glass, had a drink without toasting. Just forgot the polite thing for the moment. Was about to correct herself, when she saw that the blonde wasn’t much in a worrying state of mind. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and asked: “You waiting on someone?”

“I was.” Sable had another sip. “Now I’m just… just here.”

“Not waiting?”

“Waiting for what?”

Sable watched her swipe at some hair. Watched her sweater sleeve get stuck in a single loose knit lock. She tore at it with a smile. Reached for her cigarette and moved down one seat.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“Banker.”

“What do you really do?”

“Thank you.” Sable laughed at the sound of what she had just said. “Sorry. I’m… I paint. I’m a painter.”

“That’s pretty fucking great.”

“I get that a lot.”

“From who? Men? Women?”

“Depends.”

“Depends who’s trying to get into your paints?”

Sable didn’t mind the sound of her laughter this time and found herself moving one seat over. Easily. Noticed the bartender had stepped outside for a smoke. Alone in a bar, the both of them. She sat down.

“I was supposed to meet someone.” Sable found herself saying. Now very close to her new companion, enough to watch eyelashes flutter with a signal to go ahead. “I was supposed to meet someone here, and they…  I thought, had this… Thought I might feel comfortable around someone again.”

“Could be she’s next-door?”

“Say that again?”

“Southland.” She took a drag, pointed towards the bar. Through the bottles, mirrors. “Just as good as this place, back to back. Wall to wall. They do get confused sometimes, wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I mean it’s not a she.” Sable had a drink, and the shudder that came with it was something so much more than frightening, complete. “She’s a he. I don’t know if that means anything. Hasn’t been a she since one time, so damn long, long ago.”

The stranger stared at her ashtray. “All you have to do is check next-door.”

Sable stared at her drink. “I don’t want to.”

A silent nod. Followed by a drink. The blonde reached down to her waist, fingers taking hold of her teal woven sweater. Lifted. Sable got a look at her belly as the shirt lifted as well, stopped just below tit level, where folded, faded letters spelled out an incomplete slogan, I Got Lucky With, before the sweater lifted, caught her upper lip, dragged it, revealing tongue, teeth, up past her forehead, almost off, where it caught another one of those blonde curls, and she leaned to the side, stretching her flank, laughing, saying, “Oh, shit. Oh, no. Hey. Help me? Help me out?”

Sable reached, took hold. Undid that one strand of dirty, obstinate gold and slid the sweater right off, sleeves slipping past arms, falling to the ground, endgame with her face so close, their eyelashes sent smoke signals, mouths half open from laughter, lips magnetic, Sable could smell the sour perfection of her breath, and if she were to reach up, match the long hand on the clock above the bar, trace her fingers along her new friend’s electric smile –

The bartender walked in, and severed connection with a well meaning request for any request anyone might have.

Sable was about to order another round, but the blonde was already out of her chair. Scooping up the woven witness from sticky depths, throwing it back on. Sable prepared herself for being alone. Turned back to stare at taps, maybe glance at her watch, when the blonde came in from behind, chin resting on her shoulder, lips wandering close to Sable’s ear with a plainspoken suggestion:

“You should come to the beach with me tomorrow.”

Sable turned.

The blonde gave her space, stepped back. Grin caught halfway between confidence and whether or not this withdraw would result in an overdraft.

“Come to the beach with me,” she said. Breathless. “I don’t want this to be here, and I don’t want  it to be just because. Meet me here tomorrow. Noon. And don’t get the wrong bar, and don’t, please don’t show because it’s easier…” Beat. She shouldered an imaginary bag, added. “My name is Camilla, by the way.”

She left, quickly, leaving a trail of smoke and longing, desire so lengthy, Sable imagined she could have traced it down the streets, around the corners, into her car, that back seat, and her imagination went wild with what it would be like to not be alone, as she forgot what she was waiting for and managed to pump her heart for a few extra seconds of delirium, and she slipped the coaster into her pocket to commemorate the moment, whispering into the night, “My name is Sable.”

###

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so long and thanks for all the pish.