Alex Eames sat at the bar in the restaurant running her finger along the rim of her martini glass. She liked to sit here in this place. She liked to watch the people, listen to their conversations, their exchanges. She would order a drink, maybe two, and soak up the normal problems of normal people, after a normal day.
Tonight she was sitting near two women, about her age. One managed an exclusive boutique just a few blocks from where she sat enjoying a glass of dry red wine with her friend. She was expertly dressed and coifed, complaining good naturedly to her confidante about a rather difficult customer. Apparently the boutique catered to certain clientele, where the customer would make her purchases in the comfort of her residence and the boutique would make arrangements to retrieve what had not been purchased. Apparently, the customer had not been home when the boutique staff stopped by, and there was another customer interested in a dress. So, the boutique manager was complaining that she was caught in the middle of upsetting one customer by trying too forcefully to retrieve the items, and upsetting another for not delivering.
Alex smiled as she took the last sip of her first drink and decided to try another. She could not imagine having a life where beautiful clothes were delivered to her home on a whim. Though, part of her imagined that she would not like such a life.
Bobby Goren sat at the bar running his finger along the rim of his highball. The ice was melting, the scotch in the glass gone. He liked to sit here in this place. He liked the din of conversation; it was easy to block out, like white noise. And after enough scotch, he was able to block out his own thoughts and relegate them to fuzzy white noise.
Tonight he was sitting close to two women, about his age. They were talking quietly to each other, one clearly upset, her voice hitching over suppressed tears. He ordered another scotch, trying to move their conversation back out of his head. He didn't want to listen to them. Normally, he could sit at this place in peace and not listen to anyone. But snippets of their conversation echoed in his brain. Her mother was sick, they had just received the diagnosis this week. The friend was providing comfort, talking about treatment protocols, prognosis, talking about medical advances. The woman was now softly crying. Bobby was taking it all in, like a sponge soaking in her sorrow. He had enough sorrow inside of him, so he filled the space with another scotch and paid his tab and left.
"I think I'll try a Manhattan tonight." Alex switched up her order from her usual. The bartender smiled slightly. She was a regular at this point, but would occasionally change her drink order. He'd learned to wait for her to place her order, in case she felt spontaneous.
Tonight she was sitting next to a young couple. Alex felt they were still relatively new to each other. They were exchanging shy touches and subtle comments. The girl would laugh even when nothing especially funny was said. Nervous, Alex thought. It didn't seem like a first date, though, more like a third. The way the guy's hand was resting so high on the girl's thigh, Alex thought that tonight was maybe the night. Alex wondered about her last first date, about her last third date, about the last time she… She shrugged off that thought and took a sip of her Manhattan. It really was a lovely drink.
Bobby didn't even bother to shrug out of his coat as he sat down at the bar. The bartender set him up with his usual, scotch rocks. He always opened with the same drink. Sometimes he stuck with scotch, sometimes he switched to beer. By the way Bobby sat down, not even bothering with his coat, the bartender figured tonight would be a straight scotch night. The bartender didn't care so much; Bobby was a good customer, a quiet customer, a guy that kept to himself.
Tonight Bobby was sitting by himself. He looked down the bar to where the nearest customer sat. A young guy, in a suit, his tie loosened, drinking a beer. He was fiddling with a hand held electronic device, answering e-mails, perhaps texting someone. Bobby watched as the guy's fingers flashed with lightning speed and dexterity across the keys that generated text. Bobby looked at his own hands. He still communicated the old fashioned way, by phone or by writing things down. Old habits die hard. The bartender served Bobby another scotch.
"Martini, dry?" the bartender asked Alex. She nodded and smiled, looking around.
"Is this seat taken?" a man, a few years older than her was standing slightly behind her, gesturing to the seat beside her.
"No." Alex replied, "Not taken."
"Mind?" He asked, and she shook her head no and watched him sit down. He ordered a Manhattan, and she smiled to herself, she knew first hand the bartender made an exquisite Manhattan. "Live near here?" he asked, making a bit of conversation.
"Not really." Alex said, her reply short, but her tone conversational. "You?"
"Yeah, just a few blocks," he replied, taking a sip of his drink. "They make a nice Manhattan here." Alex smiled, giving a slight nod of agreement.
"Hey, Dad," a young woman, maybe early 20s, walked up and kissed the man on the cheek. She smiled at Alex, who tried to hide her surprise that the guy, who she guessed to be just slightly older than herself, had a daughter who was grown. Alex wondered about her life, about time slipping away, about all the might have beens. She wasn't exactly clear what her might have beens were. Technically, she was old enough to have a grown daughter, well, maybe not early 20s, but a grown daughter all the same. But her choices in life, her path had taken her in a different direction. So, her might have beens were a bit less conventional than maybe being a wife, a mother, a whatever. She was cop, first, last, and always. And, she had made peace with that a while ago.
"Could you make that a double?" Bobby asked as the bartender poured the drink. The scotch had barely cooled against the ice before Bobby took it down in a few swallows. He ran his hand across his beard, thinking about shaving. But he didn't have the energy.
He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He tried to switch off his day. He sat, trying to slow down his thoughts. A woman's voice penetrated his efforts. She was chattering away mindlessly with her friend. He wasn't focused on the words, just the sound of her was grating. She was insincere in her tone, in her body language. Bobby cast her sidelong glance, trying to decide if he should move away.
"You know," she was saying, "God only throws at us what He knows we can take, and what doesn't kill us makes us stronger." Bobby had not idea what the woman's companion had said to warrant such platitudes. He didn't care. He looked at the fresh scotch the bartender had placed in front of him, thinking that if the woman didn't shut up he would definitely have to move. As he considered his options, he heard the man on his other side dryly mumble – that's a load of crap, in protest to the woman's grating words.
Bobby drank to that.
Alex finished her martini. It was a quiet night, without many people in the bar. She liked to sit and listen to the pleasant hum of life around her, but in the absence of that, she liked to chase sleep in her own bed. She glanced at her watch, realizing that sleep would elude her, so she thought of calling someone to share an hour of conversation before she called it a night.
Bobby finished his scotch. It was a quiet night, the bar was practically empty. And, he was thankful for that. On nights like this he could stay all night, slowing down his senses with comfortable blur of the scotch. He didn't really think about much, in fact, the object was not to think at all. But he wasn't quite doing a good job of it yet. His brain wandered to the other night, with the woman weeping over her mother's illness. He felt his stomach tighten and turn. His mother's illness had taken its toll, but he never wept for her. He hadn't wept for anyone in a very long time. He thought about the empty words of the woman with the grating tone of voice. What doesn't kill us makes us stronger. He took a sip of his drink and smiled. That really was a load of crap. What doesn't kill us just beats us down...
He let the bartender serve him another drink, fairly certain that this one would chase away the rest of the day. He glanced at his watch; it was relatively early yet, but he was beginning to feel tired. He was thinking that tonight maybe he would sleep. The world was starting to feel still. Just a bit more time with quiet, and he would feel still. He reached into his pocket, and turned off his phone, just as it started to ring.
A/N: Thx to the best beta in the cosmos. I need a change in the weather to make the writer in me slightly less grumpy.