Jessica's Date 2.0
The man wasn't Jessica's customer; she was working the tables on the sidewalk in front of the bar and those just inside. He'd walked past her as he entered and she thought he might speak, inclining his head ever so slightly toward her as he moved by.
The crisp clean smell of Ivory and Tide hosted the scent of something exotic and sweet, like pineapple and ginger.
Hours later, he was still sitting in a corner booth tapping at a laptop. His waitress had given up asking him if he wanted to order another beer or a meal.
His glass was still almost full, but Jessica noticed that it had warmed and even the condensation that should coated its planes had dried. "Let me get you another drink," she said.
Jessica admired his features and his carelessly assembled expensive attire. His clean shaven cheeks warred with an untidy mop that fell across his shoulders. Beside him, his rifled backpack had lost the battle to contain his effects: a binder; a moldy copy of Don Quixote; a music theory text, still wrapped in plastic; a rumpled lunch sack; assorted pens and a cell phone.
He caught her watching him; they shared a brief stare as he dug into his jeans. The intensity unsettled Jessica and her eyes dropped to his lap, where the fabric outlined his hand and his genitals. Jessica shook herself from her stupor as he dropped a debit card and a guitar pick onto the table top.
Another would-be musician whose daddy sent him to a college where the father hoped the boy would discover the joys of accounting or business management and give up dreams of softer nature.
"I'm a little short on cash tonight," the man apologized.
Jess was drawn in by the sound of his voice. "I'll spot you," Jessica offered. "You've got to spend ten dollars before Frank will put your card through."
"Maybe I should go before your boss notices that I've been sucking the Wi-Fi from the coffeehouse through the walls."
He was charming and Jessica laughed. "Frank hates the internet almost as much as he hates those chains."
But Frank didn't mind whips and before Jessica could make her way back to the man in the corner, Frank was berating Jessica for letting a table walk out on a one-hundred dollar tab. The second time in as many days.
"You think I'm gonna give it away? What do they say on the street? That girl that doesn't watch her tables won't even remember what you looked like when her boss calls the police? Yes! That is what they say. So they come back today, tomorrow, next week. I'll be taking this out of your check."
He went on and on until Jessica had taken all she could. She stepped back from the bar and yanked on her apron, preparing to fling it on the floor.
"Hey. Hey. Hold up there! My friend forgot his wallet and I'd said I'd take care of his bill. I should have handled it as soon as they left.'
Jessica looked at her rescuer. The absconders had slipped out the back exit well before he had arrived. Frank shrugged.
"I'm adding the gratuity," Frank huffed. The waitresses in Frank's place never saw the tips from such transactions.
"Then make it twenty-five," the man said. When Frank closed the register without withdrawing Jessica's cash, the man spoke again, "I'd like to put that in her hands myself."
Avoiding his eyes, she concentrated on the movement of his lips and the song of his voice.
"Look, I'll see you around, okay?" He stepped up close and whispered. "Not a good day to quit your job, right? In front of all these people?"
Jessica went back to waiting tables after the man left the bar, but she couldn't help thinking about him, mistaking the tension that gripped her for excitement and lust.
She noticed him days later, strumming his guitar in Washington Square. He must have been out there in the cold for a long time, she thought to herself. His body no longer warm enough to melt the falling snow that touched his form. Jessica noticed the rise and fall of his exposed Adam's Apple. Removing her scarf, she walked over and wrapped it around his neck, as he continued to play. She wondered who braided his hair.
"You look like you're freezing to death," she explained.
"I died a long time ago," he confessed, as he glued his eyes to hers.
Jess felt a tug, an urge to kneel, but before she could act on the impulse, he released her with a snap, returning his own eyes to the mush piling around his feet.
Blindly, she staggered across the street. The sharp wind, channeled between high-rises, slashed at her bare throat and hissed in her ears. Turning as she reached a door, she expected to see him sitting there as if the cold didn't bother him at all, but he had vanished.
Weeks later, Jessica was sitting in a diner poking at an unscented nectarine when she thought of him again and how he smelled so deliciously of citrus.
That same night, she found him on a nearby corner long after the customers had disappeared and the sounds of street traffic fell. She stepped up to him and smiled, invitingly. He bowed his head humbly and reached out for her hands; grasping them softly, he murmured, "take me home."
Jessica didn't pick up strangers and she certainly never intended to invite the man back to the crappy walk-up she shared with two faceless girls from Mississippi or Minnesota; Jess couldn't remember which. (How convenient it was that they had flown to Florida for spring break.)
Jessica never thought to give directions or inquire as to why he needed none, until they were standing at her door and he was taking the keys from her hands. Nervousness bloomed and she began to tremble, blathering inanely about the object of a hopeless high school crush. About how aloof and distant the boy had seemed until a new girl appeared.
"You remind me of him," Jessica said meekly, hoping this man would stay for breakfast.
"Is that so?" The honeyed voice held the hint of an accent.
"Sometimes his eyes were black, too," Jess reluctantly revealed. "How strange: I seem to have forgotten his name."
"Call me Demetri," he hummed.
A/N: This one-shot was written in response to a visual prompt for the Twilight25 One-Shot/Drabble Challenge. The original 100 word drabble can found at here at Fan Fiction . net/s/6147085/2/The_Twilight_25_El_Diablo_Doesnt_Wear_Pantyhose
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Stephenie Meyer. I'm just playing with her toys. Nothing sinister, including copyright infringement, intended.