Something a bit different this time, but it's been burning away in the background for a long time and finally had to be written. Thanks to Joodiff for the beta.
Enjoy. xx
Boyd
The familiar weight and shape of the pint glass in his hand is comforting, but it doesn't quite take the edge off his worries. Out of habit Boyd glances up at the big, old-fashioned clock over the bar, and winces at the hands that have barely moved since the last time he looked. It's not helping.
Not at all.
Staring down into the amber liquid, he tries to focus his wandering, tormenting thoughts. Strives to call them into some sort of order, to focus on the positives.
It works, for a few minutes. He thinks of the future, what that might entail, but then the present catches up with him and destroys the bright, happy vision. Leaves instead the possibility of only a great, gaping hole in the rest of his life.
His eyes flicker upwards. Find that only five more minutes have elapsed.
Shoulders slumping slightly, he leans forward on the bar and studies a trio of old scars etched deep into the wood. Burn marks, most likely. Not from a cigarette though. Oddly shaped, evenly dispersed. Definitely something else, but what he has no idea. It occupies him briefly, as he works through the possibilities, but finds nothing that seems suitable.
It's annoying.
Very.
Someone takes the stool beside him and a frown wedges itself into his brow. He doesn't want company, and he certainly doesn't want to hear, "Gin and tonic, please." Female voice. Light, Irish.
He doesn't look up. Deliberately keeps his focus on his own drink.
"Girlfriend leave you?"
Despite himself, he starts, anger coursing through his blood at the thought that hits far closer to home than she – whoever she is – could possibly know.
Eyes narrowing, he glares, asks, "Why do you ask?"
Slim shoulders shrug easily. "You look like a man who's drowning his sorrows."
"Well I'm not," he says, rather more curtly than he intended. "I'm having one drink, and that's it. And there is and was no girlfriend." He has no idea why he says it. Why he gives out this piece of personal information.
He studies her. Average height, slender; gentle curves. Vibrant red hair pulled back in a ponytail – not her natural colour, he'd wager, but it still suits her. Jeans, fitted grey top under an expensive, well-made leather jacket. Boots. It is her eyes that catch him, though. Dark brown, steady and intelligent. The kind of eyes that hide a lot from the outside world.
She's trouble, and he knows it instinctively.
Trouble of the kind Boyd wants absolutely nothing to do with, of that he is certain.
She's also studying him back. Intently.
It sets him on edge, makes him immediately far more wary. He says nothing though – waits instead to see if she will say anything more.
Her drink arrives and she takes a sip, still considering him.
"Why are you here, then?" Blunt. Incredibly direct. Unsettling.
"What?"
Her eyes narrow a fraction, though not in anger. "If you're not drowning your sorrows…"
Nerves irritated, he tries not to glare as he says, "Drinking. Obviously."
A hint of a smirk is hidden as she takes another sip. "Obviously."
His eyes flick upwards. Seven minutes.
Those brown eyes are still watching him. Against his better judgement, and to fill the silence, he asks, "What about you?"
"What about me?" Impassive. Incredibly annoying.
"Why are you here?"
She's still watching him. Attentively. "I'm waiting for someone."
"Who?"
Leather moves as the shoulders beneath it shrug. "I don't know."
Boyd's intrigued, despite himself. Knows he shouldn't be. She's definitely trouble. He doesn't want anything to do with her, he really, really doesn't.
A sip of beer, a slow swallow. Another glance.
Ten minutes.
"How will you know when they get here, then?"
He doesn't mean to ask, but… somehow she's helping pass the time.
She knows. She knows damn well she's caught his attention, he can see it, and it irks him. It shouldn't, but somehow it does.
Another shrug, far too nonchalant for his liking. "I just will."
She's sitting backwards now, leaning on the bar – it's a move that shows off the curves of her breasts, the toned nature of her body. He notices, of course he does, but it's… irrelevant. Immaterial. He isn't interested, honestly doesn't even spare it a thought beyond the automatic recognition of what he sees.
He notices that she keeps her eyes on the room spread out before them, aside from the occasional subtle glance sideways at him. She appears relaxed; bored, almost. Boyd wonders if he should take offence.
He doesn't say anything, concentrates instead on his drink. Out of natural defiance he's not going to rush it, but he isn't going to draw it out either. He'll take the long walk back, get some exercise. Clear his head. A single pint, in the pub, people watching – it's not helping anything like he thought it would.
In fact, it's not helping at all.
Fifteen minutes.
"You're clock watching." Statement, not a question.
"And?"
"Why?"
God, she's irritating. On another day he'd find her fascinating, he's sure. Would enjoy batting back to see where the conversation would take them. To see if he could get a rise out of her.
Not today.
Twenty minutes. If he walks the really long way, he'll get there and not have to pace up and down, impatiently checking his watch.
"Good luck with waiting," Boyd advises, finishing his drink in one long swallow.
"Maybe I'm not waiting any longer," she suggests, shifting her glass from one hand to the other.
His mind is elsewhere, has already left this woman here at the bar and moved on. "Eh?"
"Maybe I've found the right person."
He looks at her, blankly. "Go and talk to them, then."
She smiles up at him, and it's sunny and just a touch coy. "I'm already talking to him."
Oh.
Damn.
Not what he was expecting. Not at all.
"I – " It's unusual for him to flounder, he admits to himself, but she's totally caught him off guard.
"Have another drink with me," she suggests. "An early dinner, maybe."
The rest of her suggestion is left unsaid, but Boyd can hear it loud and clear and if he wasn't so preoccupied and worried, he'd be flattered, and he knows it. Likewise by the way she's gazing at him, eyes lingering on his arms and shoulders under the lightweight sweater he chose to combat the slight chill of the early autumn day. In the right circumstances he might have stayed, could easily have taken her to dinner and probably fallen into bed with her, too. She's pretty, she's engaging, and in a different time she might have really provoked his curiosity, but he is long past that point in his life now.
Gently he shakes his head, strives for a tone that will soften his rejection. "I can't."
"Can't, or won't?" Still direct. Though a touch hurt, as well.
He gives her the truth. "Both."
"You're married." This time it is an accusation.
"I am."
"How convenient," she mutters, and he's not sure what to make of it. Doesn't want to wait long enough to work it out.
"I'm sorry, but I really have got to go." He's not cruel or nasty, and perhaps because she looks as though she doesn't believe him, as though he's just giving her a standard refusal, he adds, "My wife is having radiotherapy. I need to pick her up and take her home."
She looks startled, opens her mouth to say something that he's sure is going to be a kind apology of some sort. He can't take it. Can't bear hearing any more of them, and so he walks away before she can say anything further.
The well-meaning kindness of people that manifests itself in the same sentences over and over again – it still hurts too much.