Tales from Brooklyn: Short Stories About Love (Actually Sex): Part 6
by T. J. Clarke
“Fancy seeing you here.” Jason drapes his arm around my shoulder, his chest already in position for a fake friendly half-hug.
Devon and I are sitting at the bar, waiting for our table and first round of drinks. He always orders the turkey leg sandwich, but he is still reading the menu. He doesn’t even look up when Jason stands right next to him.
“So what’s new with you?” Jason puts his hand on the bar, though his arm is still behind my back. He is close enough to kiss. Our waitress drops off our drinks and another menu for Jason: Coke for Devon, an old-fashioned martini for me. I want to drink up everything and leave. But neither leaving Devon nor dragging him along seems like viable options.
“Same old stuff. Exams. Graduation. You?” I pick up my glass to take a sip, but gulp down half of the drink instead.
“Slow down there tiger.” He has the same devilish smile. “What are you drinking?”
“Martini.” I look around the room for our waitress. I need our table to be available now. A small crowd is forming in the bar’s entryway. The dinner-hour rush is commencing. I spot one couple possibly on their first date. The man stands with his hands folded in the front, holding a jacket. Burberry plaids. The woman is wearing a short, pink cocktail dress and heels. He turns toward her and says something, she smiles wanly.
“What’s good here?” He is lingering.
“The burger is good. The Wilkinsons are good.” I finish my drink and make a big show of looking for the waitress. I look to Devon for some conversational assistance; his attention remains focused on the menu. Damn little boys.
“Oh, I have heard about those Wilkinsons.” Jason doesn’t want to go away. “You finished your drink awfully quickly. Long day?”
“Yes.” I put the lemon rind left in the glass in my mouth. It is soaked with gin and delicious.
Our waitress finally appears. She is beaming. “Your table is ready.” Seeing Jason, she asks, “do you need a third chair?”
The expression on his face changes from cute to cold. “Oh no, thanks. I’m meeting other people.” He leans in and hugs me again. “It’s good seein’ ya.”
The impatient diners have migrated from the entrance to occupy almost all of the front room, crowding the bar. Devon passes between Jason and me to follow the waitress to the back dining room. I lean in close to Jason, to make sure that he hears me above the dinging glasses and chattering imbibers. “Wish I could say the same.”
When our dinner arrives, I am already halfway through my third martini of the night. Devon sips his first glass of coke. I check the time on my phone: Eight. Nan had only left for the airport half an hour ago.
“Can I get you anything else?” Our waitress comes by the table with hot sauce and mustard. “How is the turkey leg?” She asks Devon, who looks up and nods, but doesn’t say a word. The waitress is wearing a tight white t-shirt, suspenders, and a dark-colored lace bra that is hard to ignore. Her eyelids are painted shades of turquoise and azure. “Another coke for you?” She smiles broadly and leans in close to Devon’s face when she picks up the still half-full glass.
Devon nods, eyes looking down at his plate.
“Here you go.” She is back in seconds with a tall glass of coke and a small plate of fries. “These are on the house,” she says with a teasing lilt in her voice.
Devon is silent. I arrange the plate of fries between our water glasses. “Thank you,” I say to our waitress with a smile. Devon’s cheeks, though, are now a fine hue of fuchsia. I want to kiss his forehead and assure him that it is okay to flirt back; women will be flirting with him all the rest of his life, just for his black hair and blue eyes. Instead I pour out more ketchup onto the fries. The moment for advice-giving passes as we finish our dinner in silence.
On our way out, I see that Jason is still at the bar, talking and laughing with other people from law school. We had met two years ago. He left me on a Thursday night. We weren’t dating but had said “I love you.” To make him stay just a while longer I blocked the door and stripped naked and sucked his cock and kept blocking the door until his phone rang Chopin’s Nocturne. It was his fiancée.
“Let me go.” He growled.
I put on my shirt and moved out of the way.
The night air outside of the bar is brisk. Cars rush down Atlantic Avenue in both directions. I know what the East River smells like: metal and dust. I never said anything to Dree about Jason because I didn’t want to explain. I want her to be mine, untainted.
“Our waitress was cute,” I say.
“Yeah,” says Devon.
T. J. Clarke is the pen name of a struggling writer. She lives in Brooklyn.