Happy Hour

True to my word, I walk into Dockside at 4 the next afternoon. I can’t help but laugh when I see a glass of white wine, a glass of ice water, and a glass of ice cubes at my “usual” spot over by the windows, at the end of the bar. There’s also a set of cutlery rolled into a cloth napkin, a small plate, and a scrap of folded paper that says RESERVED, ASSHOLES in Chickie’s distinctive scrawl.

I put my purse straps over the back of the stool and pull out my book. The same book because my purse book takes a while to get through since I only read it when I’m out and about and need a distraction. I flip open to my bookmark, take a pull of wine, and lean back in the chair, eyes on the page. Tunnel vision activated.

“Hey there,” a low soft voice says. I look up into those pale blue eyes. The werewolf eyes. Shit. It’s Surfer Guy.

“I’m Jay,” he says, smiling. “Do you need anything else right now? Want to order some food?”

I’m mute. I’ve literally lost the ability to form words. I take another big drink of wine.

He looks at me for another couple beats, then knocks his knuckles on the bar twice. “OK, just let me know,” he says as he turns to walk away. The old townies are up around the corner of the big mahogany bar, and their drinks already need replenishing.

He comes back about 20 minutes later. I’ve spent that time prepping myself. I will speak.

“Flatbread? Hummus plate?” he asks. “Another Pinot Grigio?”

“I’m good,” I say, “thanks.” He starts to turn.

“Where’s Susie?” I ask. He spins back to me and places both hands on the bar, one on each side of my place setting. Big hands. Whew. Long fingers. Hmmm.

“Baby,” he says. “She had her baby. In fact, her water broke right here last night. Lots of excitement. Lots of uh, water.”

“Oh that’s great,” I say. “Boy or girl?”

“Boy,” he says, taking a minute to rearrange my glassware in front of me. He switches the ice water with the wine and then picks up the glass of ice and chucks the half-melted cubes into the sink. He fills it with fresh ice and puts it back down. “That’s why Chickie isn’t here. She went over to Susie’s place to get things ready for them when they go home tomorrow.”

I stare at him. “Chickie’s not here?”

“No she won’t be in till later. But she told me all about your setup. I hope I got it right.”

For some reason the thought that Chickie isn’t at Dockside throws me for a massive loop. I can feel panic starting in my throat. I have to go.

“Can I have the check?” I manage to squeak out. Those blue eyes narrow. “Everything OK?” he says.

“Fine, I just need to go,” I reply. Without waiting I grab a 20 from my wallet and toss it on the bar. I stuff my book in my purse and throw the strap over my shoulder. I spin the stool and hop off. Without another word I head out the door. I can’t get home fast enough.

(This should be centered) ************

(The below section should be in bold)

ME: I panicked.

CHICKIE: I heard.

ME: Shit really? What did you hear? Was it from Surfer Guy?

CHICKIE: Surfer Guy?

ME: Your bartender. He surfs. At the association beach. I’ve seen him.

CHICKIE: Really? Hmmmm. Jay. Yes. He said he mentioned I wasn’t there and you threw 20 bucks on the bar for a $4 tab and ran.

ME: Your happy hour prices really are the best.

CHICKIE: Don’t divert. What happened? Sometimes even when I’m there I don’t actually see you.

ME: I don’t know. The mere thought of your presence is anchoring for me.

CHICKIE: I’m not sure if you’ve had too much therapy or not enough. Come back this afternoon. I’ll be in the kitchen.

CHICKIE: Jay was asking about you.

ME:

ME:

ME: I’ll be there at 4. I like my reserved sign.