The Pick-up

“So how long are you staying in the city?”

I turned my head to the sad barkeep. A man in his forties, medium height, average looks, balding and perspiring at the same time. Do I know him? I tried to remember. Most probably yes. I had come to this bar before. In fact, a couple of weeks ago I had a fight with a fellow customer at this very counter. I thumped his head on it. His skull must have cracked. It made a bad sound. It was one of those sounds, which make you feel like screaming, but, ultimately, you don’t. You realize that any further sound will make the matters worse. So you close your eyes, and pray, perhaps. He was bleeding and licking his lips. Was he trying to reach for his own blood? I looked for the dry stains on the counter. There was nothing. Did they wash it off with soap, or was it some other bar?

The barkeep was still looking at me. All smiling and trying to be cordial. I concealed my irritation and replied, “Not very long.”

“It must be very lonely. Travelling like this? Eh?”

This time I didn’t answer. You have filled your quota, I muttered to myself. Don’t cross the line. He must have got the drift. Swiftly he scurried to another direction, caught up with some other guy, inquiring about weather. The people on the other side of the counters are way smarter than the rest of us. But they exude undaunted foolishness to please their customers. What is better – pretending to be stupid or smart? Most people come up with the right answer only when the pretension part is dropped. But that is the fun of any paradox. If you drop the twist, it becomes truth. And who gives a damn about truth?

I took out my pack of cigarettes. Smoking causes cancer, so they have decreed its banishment from the taverns. But in this part of the town, you are allowed to die in pain. Pretty considerate. I don’t smoke much, but it’s great to light a cig. Especially when you are drinking alone. It gives you a character, which you have to carry through the rest of your life.

Whether I was already drunk, or the matchsticks went moony, I didn't know. I couldn't light my cigarette. The barman saw it, but didn't move. He couldn't think up how I would react. He stuck to his pose at the other end of the counter, yakking with the dumbest of his clients and grinning like a happy giraffe. He did right. I would have been monumentally pissed. He would be the last person to light my fire.

A click. I felt alarmed. Warm. I turned. Once again. This time to my back.

And I saw her.

The first word that came to my mind was “tall”. She was taller than all the women I knew. She was even taller than her own shadow. An amazing feat considering the time of our rendezvous. Her long, slender right hand was holding a burning lighter. The flame was steady like the wings of a moth sitting on a wall. I pointed the stick to its direction. The bar was so silent that I could hear the paper burn.

The smoke that I exhaled was thick and blue. The environment became dense. She withdrew her lighter and smiled. I tried to make a meaning of it and failed.

“Care for one?” I finally spoke. 

“I don’t smoke.”

There was something in her voice, which only the bards of the ancient world could describe. The water froze and the ice melted at the same time. I looked in her eyes and stood up.

We had a little conversation on the road.

“I like the smell of your deodorant,” she whispered.

“It’s not deodorant. It’s eau-de-cologne,” I whispered back.