“Mimi! How you doin’, kid?” John called out from behind the bar, waving us all over. “Your parents were up here a few weeks ago, they told me all about your wedding plans in San Francisco. Sounds like it’s going to be some kind of epic event.” He came out to greet us, exclaiming an “oof” when Mimi launched herself at the burly linebacker of a guy.
“John, this is Ryan, my fiancé,” she gushed, linking her arm through John’s and grinning at both of them. The two shook hands, and introductions were made all around.
“So how do you know this one?” he asked Mimi, jerking his thumb toward me.
“Just met her today actually, but these two go way back,” she answered, pointing at Simon and me.
“Viv, the usual?” John asked, leading us all to a corner table.
“I don’t know that I’ve been coming here long enough to have a usual, have I?” I asked, looking over the menu. “Although I am dreaming of pizza . . .”
“Butcher Block?” Mimi asked, and I nodded. “Yeah, let’s get two of those. Large. And a couple of pitchers of beer, whatever’s on tap tonight,” she instructed. Everyone looked at one another, and then nodded. Pizza and beer all around.
The jukebox was going, the place was packed, the food was amazing, and the beer flowed. Ryan was fascinating to talk to, both smart and funny. Simon told me stories all about his latest travels and Caroline described the renovation they had just completed on their new home in Sausalito. And the adventures of their new feline family they’d inherited. And Mimi? Mimi was a trip. She knew half the people in the bar, from family vacations over the years. And when Jessica stopped by after she closed down the restaurant she found herself at the table as well with a beer in hand after Mimi literally pulled her off her feet and sat her down with us.
After days of near solitude, I felt almost overwhelmed. Just a touch. I grabbed my purse and headed up to the jukebox to take a breather while I picked some new tunes. A dance floor opened up out back behind the restaurant, along with additional seating for when it was this crowded. I studied the list of songs, made a few selections, and was just putting my quarters in when I felt a tickle in my nose. Turning, I spied one Mr. Hank Higgins perched on a barstool, the luckiest bottle of beer poised between his lips.
I watched as his tongue licked at his full lips, catching a drop. I watched as he ran his fingers up and down the long neck of the bottle, stroking it absently. I watched as his hand closed around the top, twisting ever so slightly before returning for the downstroke. And I watched as he cupped the nuts from below, holding them in his giant man hands.
Did I forget to mention they were cashews? From the bowl on the bar? Aw yeah.
“Pretty sure the jukebox won’t work when there’s drool in between the buttons,” someone said in my ear, and I whirled around. Jessica stood there, silently laughing.
“Ass,” I said, pushing past her and leaning against the other end of the bar. From this spot, I could still admire the cashews.
“He’s just a guy,” she urged. “Talk to him, don’t talk to him—he’s still just a guy.”
I ran my hand through my hair in frustration. Tonight for once I wasn’t wearing sneakers and covered in dust. I was clad in an oversized men’s black button-down with a piece of rope belting it in the middle; it was a short dress on me. And in place of my combat boots, I’d worn sandals tonight. Laced up to my knees, they showed off my short but powerful legs. And my black button-down was artfully unbuttoned. Was I showing off some cleave? Yes’m. Could you see the edge of my black lacy bra? Yes’m. Was I looking fairly fetching tonight? Fuck yes’m.
Perhaps this was the night, the night I’d make him notice me as more than just a sneezer. I peered down the bar; he was still there. With his nuts. I could do this.
I handed her my purse, which she took with a murmured “Get it, girl.”
I sauntered down toward him, putting an extra swish and sway into my hips. Something about leading with the hips makes a girl feel a little more sexy, a little more grrr. One of the songs I selected came on the jukebox, Al Green’s Can’t Get Next to You. I walked in time with the music, catching the eye of a bartender and tossing him a flirtatious and cheeky grin. He smiled back instantly, eyes appreciative of my perky perks. And was it me, or had the lighting changed? Darker, smokier, smudgier . . .
“Grease fire is out!” was the call from the kitchen, but no matter. The smoke and the smudge gave an exotic feel to this neighborhood bar, this watering hole, this . . . opium den.