"Sophia, Sophia."
It is not the girl's name and yet the elderly gentleman sings it to her every Tuesday night as he enters the pub, with a wink and a low rumbling chuckle as he takes his usual spot at the bar. His voice a sonorous baritone carries despite the soft din of music and conversation. It is deep and rich and layered. Comforting despite the weight of years humming through as many as the lines that etch his face. The wispy, cotton whiteness of his hair contrasts with the dark chocolate of his skin and then again when he smiles broadly. The young woman with the almond-shaped eyes turns towards the familiar voice that serenades her and greets him with the only unguarded smile that graces her face all evening. The observer does not fail to notice this. It is another question that hovers in the air and draws her towards the woman whose cat-like eyes shimmer with a blueness as fluid as the ocean and just as mutable. On nights when the tides change and those oceans turn a greener hue, the observer is reminded of constant green eyes and wonders if the ache will remain if she pursues this course. Will the ache subside if she should capture this turbulence of blue.
The observer knows this exchange well by now. It is their particular dance. The well-dressed septuagenarian calls out to the young woman with a name that is not her own. But it is a reference that the enigmatic stranger will only understand years later when she is finally home and curled into the side of the person she has left too many times. One otherwise ordinary evening, by all estimations unspectacular, but miraculous given the personages involved. They are home, in their own private space, savoring a closeness not easily come-by. It is an ordinary act this, huddled tight on a leather couch a tartan blanket warming their knees while they absentmindedly flip through channels. It is until one of them says, "Stop, go back darling." And it is a revelation. It is the romance in a name she only then understands. "Who is that?" She asks slightly breathless. "See something you like?" The response is light and airy and affectionate. "That is Sophia Loren, she's a famous Italian actress. Want to watch?" There is a shaking of a head and feather light kisses to lips and the evening resumes somehow altered by a name. But that is some time yet in the future, not so far off in reality, but unimaginably so on a Tuesday evening. "Sophia, Sophia." Is met with the ease of, "Hey Handsome. I've missed you all week," as she pours him a ginger ale. Is returned with the warmth of a grandfatherly, "Me too, Beautiful. Me too."
The woman returns a week later. This time on a Wednesday. This time she does not hide in a corner seat observing. It is early yet on this summer evening and the students have yet to arrive for the fall. She strides up to the bar dressed in a crisp white shirt tucked into riding pants and perches on a stool. It is a too quiet evening that leaves no where to hide anyway. As striking as the dark-haired woman is, tonight lurking in the shadows is not an option. She is met with a too-eager grin from a bearded young man insensible to his lack of charm. "I can always tell what people are drinking. Don't tell me. You're a white wine kind of gal. Something that tingles. Pinot Grigio." He tilts his head like he's won the lottery.
"You're right. I won't tell you." The woman quips. Her English accent adding an edge to her reply. He does not have enough grace to look crestfallen but does look confused, signifying he remains insensible to the response. The would-be Casanova is saved from further awkwardness by the young woman behind the bar.
Sophia, Sophia places her hands flat on the counter, "What can I get you?"
The woman appraises her appreciatively. Blue-eyes glimmer against olive skin, straight ash brown hair pulled up in a messy knot. She is wearing a white tanktop, the name Giselle stitched in silver thread over her left breast. Her bare arms exposed, a tattoo of an elaborate dagger on her forearm. Her mind wanders as her eyes lower to long elegant fingers. She wonders if her touch would burn. She thinks of charges and voltage and lightning. It would be easy to call her beautiful and leave it at that. The observer is not satisfied with that descriptor. She settles on the word magnetism. For she has observed it and also felt the pull. It is not enough that she is beautiful. The woman has been running a while now searching for escape from a past that bites too readily at her heels and hammers too insistently at her chest. She has been looking for new ways to drown and knows she's found it. What if this one could drown the ache. Would it not be worth it in the end, to be submersed by the deluge and baptised anew? She could drown. In drowning, she might forget.
The bartender is accustomed to such scrutiny. Men, women, young and old, eyes that bore into her back, that flicker across her face, that snake her breasts. She has felt all those eyes and knows this gaze well. They are the thirsty after all who come to the well. But she sees something more than thirst in this woman's eyes. There is a determination and there is a haunting. No, she is not one to flinch from such dark eyes.
"I believe you could tell what it is." She holds the younger woman's gaze.
She does not stammer or blush. She does not flinch or smirk or hesitate. Now she is the one to observe, inky tresses framing pale skin. The darkest eyes burning into hers, seeking answers. "I couldn't tell." She replies evenly but curls her fingers.
"No? More's the pity." The woman smirks this time. It is not a mask, this singular confidence.
"No." She turns to reach for a particular bottle. Places a red napkin on the counter and slides a glass filled with a honey coloured liquid towards the Englishwoman. "But I can offer you something that I like."
Arching her eyebrows, a quick 'cheers' gestured, the older woman lifts the glass to her mouth inhaling gently and allows the smooth burn to settle before she licks her lips.
"English Whisky Company, Chapter 9." She offers before the question is asked.
"English Whisky?"
"Yes." The bartender nods and wipes down the counter.
"Chapter 9." Helena likes the sound of it, the poetry of it. She knows that she was right about her. She knows that yes, she could drown in changeable blue-eyes, in the warmth of olive skin smelling of jasmine and cedars and tasting of whisky. She could drown and the ever-present ache in her heart along with it.
TBC