They are playing some unknown oldie on the radio as we're sitting at the sticky bar table in South California. The weather has long since changed from warm to plainly fucking hot, but the air in the bar is quite bearable for some unknown reason. Probably thanks to the pig like bartender; he has to have a good air conditioner, even if he's sweating like the pig he so much resembles in this rather cool climate that rules inside the bar. I can almost smell him all the way to where we're sitting. Though the bartender, or his odour, is not the one getting on my nerves at the moment. That job has already been vacated.
"I still don't get it."
"What more could there possibly be that you don't understand? Damn, Cas, I've made this as simple as humanly possible."
He frowns at me and I stare right back to those extremely blue eyes. A glass of scotch is not nearly enough for this.
"Hey bartender, bring me more of this." I tell to the greasy old man behind the bar. He gives me the look of doom and bangs the glass on the table, splashing away with the liquor as he fills the glass with honey coloured amnesia. As if he would have something better do. That fat bastard just resents me for disturbing his mind-fuck-moment.
"Thanks, sunshine. You can leave the bottle." I tell him and give him a sneer. He mumbles something and grabs the money from the table. Hopefully, he will use it to buy a new shirt; one that actually fits him and doesn't look like it's about to be torn apart by fat. Probably not going to happen.
As I drain the glass with one sharp gulp, and help myself for another, I turn my glance back to Cas, who is still looking at me with the same confusion in his eyes. I roll mine and explain it to him, again, really slowly, as if it would help him to understand the meaning of the words I'm telling him. Dear God, please let him get it this time.
"You just pick up a good-looking chick, or a couple of them if you are me, walk up to them, tell them that their eyes are the most beautiful thing you have ever seen, or what ever comes to your mind, give that patented puppy-eye look of yours and be done with it. Just as simple as that, nothing too complex about it. Even you can do this."
I look back at him, and hell, he has still that confused look on his face. And I thought I was being fucking clear as hell. But no, he just won't get this.
I grunt and press my palms to my eyes. How can an angel be this dense? I turn to face him with a sigh.
"I do not get your definition of 'good-looking chick'. What is that?" he asks and looks at me like I would be holding the answer to all the great mysteries in the world. And I thought he knew all the answers to valuable questions. He is the one who's supposed to possess some sort of angelic mojo. I let out a small bark of laugh and looked into his direction. He is still sitting there, on the orange barstool, looking at me, just waiting for an answer.
Is he being serious? I stare at him with a deep frown on my face. He does not show any signs of joking. I huff. Of course he's not joking, he doesn't know how. Yet I can't grasp the idea of him not knowing what a chick is. Could it be that simple? Just a simple confusion with my poor choice of words? Apparently. I shake my head with a small smile on my lips and wave my hand in the general direction of a couple of females in the corner of the bar and say:
"You pick the one that attracts you the most and do as I told you."
He seems to ponder about this for awhile, and then he looks at me again.
"You sure it'll work?" he asks with a bit of wonder in his voice.
"Of course I am."
I roll my eyes at him and turn back towards the bar table and think of ordering another one of those scotches; just to make that plump bastards day by giving him enough money for a pair of new jeans that will match the shirt, when Cas breaks the silence.
"You have beautiful eyes."