TITLE: Not exactly Peeping Tom (1/1)
AUTHOR: Copycat
E-MAIL: copycat@cliffhanger.com
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATION: V R (Harm/Jordan & Harm/Mac, sort of)
Other-POV
SPOILERS: Umm... Through 'The one where Bud gets to
be Chief Justice'. Nothing really specific, though.
SUMMARY: Harm and Mac (Oh, and Jordan), through the
eyes of a stranger.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue. Please?
This is my first attempt, don't be too hard on me.
S
NOTE: A good friend of mine (Hi, Gwen G) is
currently learning to draw men and I thought, well,
that's a perfectly good reason for me to try to write
them. So... Here goes...
~^~^~^~^~
Don't you know no matter where you go
Somebody's always watching you
That's what they say
- Sheryl Crow
~^~^~^~^~
Well, here I am, then. Another city, another bar,
another lonely night. (I think the sign outside said
McMurphy's or something, but I'm not sure. It doesn't
matter, anyway, I can remember the name of my hotel,
and that's all the taxi driver will need to know.)
I don't particularly LIKE going to pubs, it's just
that it's better than sitting in a hotel room by
yourself all night. Marginally. At least in a bar you
can pretend that solitude is a choice you made.
The big upside is people. I'm not the kind of person
who would just go up and talk to a stranger, oh no, I
just like to watch them. Not in a perverted
voyeuristic sort of way but just, like, trying to
figure out who they are, what they're thinking and
stuff like that. Guessing what their lives are like.
I have no life, so I live vicariously through the
rest of the world.
I notice the couple the minute they walk through the
door. (I think half the people here do, they're the
kind of couple who get attention even when they
aren't asking for it.) He's being a real gentleman
holding the door for her and all that shit.
As they walk towards the bar he leans closer to her
and says something I can't hear.
She responds by whacking him on the shoulder and
smiling that half amused/half coy sort of smile that
makes me think I should start dating again.
But then he smiles back in that perfect, charming way
that makes me remember why I haven't (I'm not saying
I'm not lonely, simply that I'm not a fool and I
don't thrive on defeat), saying "Hey, I was just
making an observation."
She refrains from answering and seats herself (to my
delight--I have chosen my human specimens of the
evening) just one seat down to my right, and he takes
his place next to her further away from me.
They order their drinks--she's having a tonic water
with lime, he's having a beer--and sit for a while in
what looks like companionable silence. It's not a
first--or even second or third--date: obviously they
know each other well enough not to feel a need to
talk. Like Harry and Sally, only for real.
Come to think of it, though, I don't think it's even,
officially, a date at all, since they're both wearing
uniforms. Probably just got off duty or whatever.
As she sits there pushing that little piece of lime
around in her glass with her pink straw I spot my
chance to look at her a little closer.
I try not to ogle her since I'm guessing the guy
would probably take offence and he's 12 foot
something and I fight like a girl. The girly kind, I
mean.
It's not too easy, though, because, from an entirely
sexist, male pig point of view, she's a babe. (Is
that even the word kids use today? Oh, who cares, I
wasn't hip when I WAS a kid, why try now?) And also,
I've just realized from the way she's sitting on that
bar stool that whoever designed women's military
(marine, my mind supplies irrelevantly) uniforms was
most decidedly a man with ulterior motives. So much
for equal rights. Or maybe that's just when SHE's
wearing it trying to sit like that.
I don't know that many female marines (Or male, for
that matter, since they could in all likelihood shed
some light on this mystery), so I really wouldn't
know.
It's a definite possibility, I decide, however, as
she shrugs off her jacket and stretches.
Daring a glance at the guy I discover that my
previous fears are somewhat unfounded. Not that I
question the consequences, no, I'm pretty sure I have
those down, I just sincerely doubt it he would
notice. I don't think his vision extends that far.
And besides, he's hardly the one to be throwing rocks
around.
She pulls her shoulders back, groaning at the pain
this causes in her back, (For someone in a uniform
she's showing an awful lot of pencil-pusher
symptoms.) and I determine that tossing pebble would
be pushing his luck.
'Tongue in, close your mouth, breathe' I admonish
silently and toss my theory of them being a couple to
the wind.
No man would look quite like that at something that
was already his. Not even at something he had ONCE
had.
But a man can dream, right? And, obviously, men do.
She adjusts her shirt and his eyes pop back in their
sockets just before she turns to look at him. "Harm?"
she says and I wonder wittily (ha, ha) if that's his
name or a threat.
"Hmm?" he mumbles, sounding somewhat distant.
She opens her mouth to speak, now looking straight
ahead, then closes it again and shakes her head. "It
was nothing," she claims, "never mind."
"I always mind, Mac" he replies, relatively more
alert, "what is it?"
She looks at him, and I can no longer see her face,
but I can see his and I'll bet good money that isn't
his happy-face. "Do you ever wish things were
different?" She asks finally, once again looking away
from him.
"Well, I guess everybody wishes that, every now and
then," he trails off. "But--"
"There really isn't any point?" She challenges.
He smiles and shrugs.
"Well, for arguments sake, let's say you could go
back in time and change ONE thing that had happened
in your life, what would it be?" She pauses briefly,
then adds, "other than the obvious, of course." And I
wonder what the obvious is, exactly.
As we wait in suspense for his answer I discover that
if I crane my neck just a little I can see both their
faces in the mirror on the wall behind the bar. (The
one that 99 percent of all drunks hate because all
they have to do is look up to be eye to eye with the
very thing they're running from.) They're on opposite
sides of the Martini and the Bacardi Lemon.
"I don't know," he admits at last. "Why?"
She shrugs and looks at him. "No reason." She looks
kinda sad and both Harm and I realize that she was
looking for an answer--a particular one--and that
there IS a reason.
"What about you? What would you change?" He smiles
slightly. "Other that the obvious, of course."
She does a funny sort of upturn thing with her mouth
and looks at him. "I have an obvious?"
He grins fully. "I don't know. Do you?"
She smiles back, it seems to be a Pavlovian response
rather than a conscious act. "Well, if you don't
know, it can't be all that obvious," she argues.
He shrugs. "Good point, counselor." Counselor?
They're LAWYERS?!
She smiles vindictively, and that appears to end
their philosophical discussion.
Now it's his turn to look thoughtful. (He might have
before, too, I don't know, I wasn't paying attention
to HIM at the time.) It's fairly obvious he's
thinking about her, because every now and then--
rather frequently, actually--he looks at her out of
the corner of his eye.
She sits, seemingly oblivious to his scrutiny still
smiling about her victory, or some other private
joke, perhaps.
After a while he turns to her. Not just his face, but
all of him. "So, what would it be, then?"
She vacuums her now empty glass with her pink straw
for a while and his expression changes from hesitant
to doubtful. "What would what be?"
"Well, what would you change?"
I rejoice at the discovery of that mirror because
right now her face is definitely worthy of close
examination. And not just from a purely esthetical
point of view. Emotions play on her face so quickly I
don't have the time to identify them all.
Finally, honesty and something I haven't seen since
my grandmother was alive win out. This woman has the
exact same look on her face as grandma did when she
was telling stories about my granddad who died in The
War. (To Grandma there was only ever one real war,
and you could hear the capitalization when she spoke
about it.) It's a peculiar mix of love, grief and
passive acceptance of things as they are, and just
like when I was a kid I am fascinated, humbled and
jealous all at the same time.
When she opens her mouth to speak she has put on a
mask of self-deprecation that does not, however,
manage to conceal the determination and faint hope
that have taken up residence in her eyes, testimony
to an obvious change of heart. "I suppose it would be
that I never--"
None of us notice the (also uniform clad) blond woman
until she is standing directly in front of him. It's
all I can do to keep from yelling at her to piss off,
they were in the middle of something, but, firstly,
that's hardly my line and, secondly, she leans kisses
the guy, Harm, (a little more passionately than just
'hello') and after a short period of recovery he
reciprocates in kind, forcing me to admit that, as
much as I want her gone and to hear Mac's answer, she
probably has every right to be there.
Still in the process of kissing the poor (Well, maybe
not, but you know what I mean) guy silly she casts a
glance at Mac that goes by unnoticed by no one but
Harm, who obviously has his hands full.
In the mirror I see Mac meet the other woman's eye
briefly, then look away, the grandmother-expression
back on her face.
"Jordan, hi," Harm breathes when she finally lets him
up for air.
'Jordan' smiles warmly. "Hi. Sorry I'm late," (Oh,
I'll BET you are.) "I got caught up at work. You know
how it is. Oh, hi, Mac," she adds, almost as an
afterthought.
Harm simply smiles and nods, still struggling for
control.
Jordan casts a quick glance at Mac's chair and
without a word Mac obligingly retreats to the chair
next to me, letting Jordan slide onto the stool next
to Harm.
She looks at me briefly, the ghost of an apologetic
smile on her face, and I smile back trying to keep it
friendly but not too sympathetic. Something tells me
she wouldn't really appreciate it.
Jordan chats on in a somewhat forced manner,
receiving no real help from anyone but not meeting
any open resistance either.
Harm laughs and comments when required and Mac smiles
and nods when ditto.
After a while she runs out of babble, I guess, and no
one objects to the silence that ensues.
Mac is sitting close enough for me to feel the
nervous energy that's coming off her in waves. It's
obvious she had something to say, and it's even more
obvious she's not going to say it while the other
woman (Whom I gather IS sleeping with Harm) is
around.
I'd never admit it to anyone who knew my name--and
not to an awful lot of people who don't--but I'm a
romantic at heart, (Even if that's a fact my ex-wife
would LOVE to dispute, as she does practically
everything I say.) and I've taken something of a
fancy to this beautiful dark-haired woman sitting
next to me, and so, it is only natural that I should
think that if she wants that tall fellow with his
white uniform and his perfect smile, then she
should have him. And that eventually she will.
I look at his girlfriend, who is pretty, I'll admit
it, (But then again, guys like that don't date women
that are too much short of beautiful. They leave
those for the likes of me.) and I can't help but
wonder if she realizes just how lucky she was tonight
or she's too busy worrying about when that luck runs
out.
Harm excuses himself to go to the 'head' as he so
eloquently puts it, and I'm half expecting a
confrontation, or maybe even a cat-fight. I mean,
they're in the military, right? They're supposed to
have something of a violent streak, aren't they?
They just sit there, however, and I've almost given
up hope of SOME sort of progression when Jordan
cranes her neck to look in the direction Harm went,
saying "You looked like I was interrupting something
when I came in." She actually sounds more insecure
than sarcastic, which surprises me a bit. "So...
Should I have come earlier or not at all?" She
continues, looking straight at Mac.
"Jordan, please," Mac begs weakly. Clearly she
doesn't want to get into it, and somehow I get the
feeling they have been over this before. The whole
"Are you trying to steal my man?"-business, I mean.
Jordan doesn't say anything, she simply looks at Mac
expectantly and finally the latter seems to come to
the conclusion that silence is not the best evasion-
tactic. "Look, Jordan, I told you before--" (Ha, I'm
right.) "--There's nothing going on between us."
"How do you define 'nothing', exactly?" Comes the
rather tart reply.
This time the interruption by the third of the party
is welcomed by Mac who turns back to her empty glass
the minute he appears back on my stage of the
evening.
Both women seem to think they came out of this as
winners: Jordan because she got the last word, and
Mac because she didn't have to.
Still, I can't imagine victory as being anything but
bittersweet in this case since Jordan didn't really
get an answer to any of her questions (Extending
beyond whatever conclusions she made based on Mac's
behavior.) and Mac still hasn't said her piece and
her leg is STILL bouncing up and down at a terrifying
pace.
The bartender shows up, making small talk in his
distinct Irish accent and getting everybody a refill,
ignoring my half-finished pint of beer. Like I said,
I don't really like going out, and I certainly don't
do it to get drunk. Not all that often, anyway. I can
spend hours spitting into one of these.
Especially when real-life puts on a show like this
for me.
Other people's lives, I mean, of course.
Since Harm came back Jordan hasn't made any advances
towards forcing an admission of anything from Mac.
Instead she has turned her attention to her
boyfriend, holding his hand and constantly leaning in
to kiss him or nuzzle him in a display that is, to
my, admittedly biased, mind, more nauseating than
cute.
Harm seems a little embarrassed by this public
display of affection, but his good manners (Oh, hell,
and his libido) keep him from objecting.
You'd think I'd be envious of this man who has two
(and probably quite a few more, whom I haven't seen)
women wanting him. But I'm not. Not really.
I'd like to say it's because I understand, I've been
there, walked a mile in his shoes and all that bull,
but his feet are much bigger than mine. Literally AND
figuratively.
It's just that I realize that he likes both these
women (I mean, he MUST like Jordan, or she wouldn't
be there--she's obviously not Mac's best gal-pal even
if they do put up appearances in front of the fella
and, to some extent, each other--and Mac... Well, I
won't even get into that) and at some point down the
road he's gonna have to choose between them. Even if
Jordan seemed hell-bent on making Mac choose for him
and Mac didn't seem too opposed to that idea earlier
on. Before Jordan showed up.
Either way, what I'm getting at is, he's gonna have
to hurt one of them and I don't think he likes the
idea of that. I know I wouldn't, and that's why I can
honestly say I'm not all that jealous.
Mac has sat through Harm and Jordan's make-out
session with an air of habitual indifference and
forced amusement that doesn't fool me because I don't
want it to, but which I would say that, when
confronted with the casual observer, she'd be able to
pull off rather well.
But then, I suppose enough is enough, with a final
glance at Harm, Mac finishes her drink, at a pace
that makes me and my sensitive stomach glad that
isn't (wasn't) vodka in her glass, and slides off her
stool. "I should get going," she murmurs.
Harm looks at her and for an instant I (And maybe
Mac, too, if she hadn't been so focused on NOT
looking him in the eye just then) think he is
actually going to object and ask her to stay.
Instead he just nods his consent and mumbles
something only he would ever be able to hear, which I
guess is supposed to mean goodnight.
When she finally looks at him to say goodbye he has
turned his gaze away and his expression is
unreadable.
Jordan simple smiles in happy agreement, not quite
managing to hide her satisfaction.
Just before turning around to leave Mac puts some
money on the counter to pay for her drinks, and I'm
very careful not to look at her in the mirror,
because it would be an intrusion and I don't want the
last expression I see on her face to be defeat.
It would make it impossible for me to go back to my
hotel room and dream up happy endings.
THE END
AUTHOR: Copycat
E-MAIL: copycat@cliffhanger.com
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATION: V R (Harm/Jordan & Harm/Mac, sort of)
Other-POV
SPOILERS: Umm... Through 'The one where Bud gets to
be Chief Justice'. Nothing really specific, though.
SUMMARY: Harm and Mac (Oh, and Jordan), through the
eyes of a stranger.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue. Please?
This is my first attempt, don't be too hard on me.
S
NOTE: A good friend of mine (Hi, Gwen G) is
currently learning to draw men and I thought, well,
that's a perfectly good reason for me to try to write
them. So... Here goes...
~^~^~^~^~
Don't you know no matter where you go
Somebody's always watching you
That's what they say
- Sheryl Crow
~^~^~^~^~
Well, here I am, then. Another city, another bar,
another lonely night. (I think the sign outside said
McMurphy's or something, but I'm not sure. It doesn't
matter, anyway, I can remember the name of my hotel,
and that's all the taxi driver will need to know.)
I don't particularly LIKE going to pubs, it's just
that it's better than sitting in a hotel room by
yourself all night. Marginally. At least in a bar you
can pretend that solitude is a choice you made.
The big upside is people. I'm not the kind of person
who would just go up and talk to a stranger, oh no, I
just like to watch them. Not in a perverted
voyeuristic sort of way but just, like, trying to
figure out who they are, what they're thinking and
stuff like that. Guessing what their lives are like.
I have no life, so I live vicariously through the
rest of the world.
I notice the couple the minute they walk through the
door. (I think half the people here do, they're the
kind of couple who get attention even when they
aren't asking for it.) He's being a real gentleman
holding the door for her and all that shit.
As they walk towards the bar he leans closer to her
and says something I can't hear.
She responds by whacking him on the shoulder and
smiling that half amused/half coy sort of smile that
makes me think I should start dating again.
But then he smiles back in that perfect, charming way
that makes me remember why I haven't (I'm not saying
I'm not lonely, simply that I'm not a fool and I
don't thrive on defeat), saying "Hey, I was just
making an observation."
She refrains from answering and seats herself (to my
delight--I have chosen my human specimens of the
evening) just one seat down to my right, and he takes
his place next to her further away from me.
They order their drinks--she's having a tonic water
with lime, he's having a beer--and sit for a while in
what looks like companionable silence. It's not a
first--or even second or third--date: obviously they
know each other well enough not to feel a need to
talk. Like Harry and Sally, only for real.
Come to think of it, though, I don't think it's even,
officially, a date at all, since they're both wearing
uniforms. Probably just got off duty or whatever.
As she sits there pushing that little piece of lime
around in her glass with her pink straw I spot my
chance to look at her a little closer.
I try not to ogle her since I'm guessing the guy
would probably take offence and he's 12 foot
something and I fight like a girl. The girly kind, I
mean.
It's not too easy, though, because, from an entirely
sexist, male pig point of view, she's a babe. (Is
that even the word kids use today? Oh, who cares, I
wasn't hip when I WAS a kid, why try now?) And also,
I've just realized from the way she's sitting on that
bar stool that whoever designed women's military
(marine, my mind supplies irrelevantly) uniforms was
most decidedly a man with ulterior motives. So much
for equal rights. Or maybe that's just when SHE's
wearing it trying to sit like that.
I don't know that many female marines (Or male, for
that matter, since they could in all likelihood shed
some light on this mystery), so I really wouldn't
know.
It's a definite possibility, I decide, however, as
she shrugs off her jacket and stretches.
Daring a glance at the guy I discover that my
previous fears are somewhat unfounded. Not that I
question the consequences, no, I'm pretty sure I have
those down, I just sincerely doubt it he would
notice. I don't think his vision extends that far.
And besides, he's hardly the one to be throwing rocks
around.
She pulls her shoulders back, groaning at the pain
this causes in her back, (For someone in a uniform
she's showing an awful lot of pencil-pusher
symptoms.) and I determine that tossing pebble would
be pushing his luck.
'Tongue in, close your mouth, breathe' I admonish
silently and toss my theory of them being a couple to
the wind.
No man would look quite like that at something that
was already his. Not even at something he had ONCE
had.
But a man can dream, right? And, obviously, men do.
She adjusts her shirt and his eyes pop back in their
sockets just before she turns to look at him. "Harm?"
she says and I wonder wittily (ha, ha) if that's his
name or a threat.
"Hmm?" he mumbles, sounding somewhat distant.
She opens her mouth to speak, now looking straight
ahead, then closes it again and shakes her head. "It
was nothing," she claims, "never mind."
"I always mind, Mac" he replies, relatively more
alert, "what is it?"
She looks at him, and I can no longer see her face,
but I can see his and I'll bet good money that isn't
his happy-face. "Do you ever wish things were
different?" She asks finally, once again looking away
from him.
"Well, I guess everybody wishes that, every now and
then," he trails off. "But--"
"There really isn't any point?" She challenges.
He smiles and shrugs.
"Well, for arguments sake, let's say you could go
back in time and change ONE thing that had happened
in your life, what would it be?" She pauses briefly,
then adds, "other than the obvious, of course." And I
wonder what the obvious is, exactly.
As we wait in suspense for his answer I discover that
if I crane my neck just a little I can see both their
faces in the mirror on the wall behind the bar. (The
one that 99 percent of all drunks hate because all
they have to do is look up to be eye to eye with the
very thing they're running from.) They're on opposite
sides of the Martini and the Bacardi Lemon.
"I don't know," he admits at last. "Why?"
She shrugs and looks at him. "No reason." She looks
kinda sad and both Harm and I realize that she was
looking for an answer--a particular one--and that
there IS a reason.
"What about you? What would you change?" He smiles
slightly. "Other that the obvious, of course."
She does a funny sort of upturn thing with her mouth
and looks at him. "I have an obvious?"
He grins fully. "I don't know. Do you?"
She smiles back, it seems to be a Pavlovian response
rather than a conscious act. "Well, if you don't
know, it can't be all that obvious," she argues.
He shrugs. "Good point, counselor." Counselor?
They're LAWYERS?!
She smiles vindictively, and that appears to end
their philosophical discussion.
Now it's his turn to look thoughtful. (He might have
before, too, I don't know, I wasn't paying attention
to HIM at the time.) It's fairly obvious he's
thinking about her, because every now and then--
rather frequently, actually--he looks at her out of
the corner of his eye.
She sits, seemingly oblivious to his scrutiny still
smiling about her victory, or some other private
joke, perhaps.
After a while he turns to her. Not just his face, but
all of him. "So, what would it be, then?"
She vacuums her now empty glass with her pink straw
for a while and his expression changes from hesitant
to doubtful. "What would what be?"
"Well, what would you change?"
I rejoice at the discovery of that mirror because
right now her face is definitely worthy of close
examination. And not just from a purely esthetical
point of view. Emotions play on her face so quickly I
don't have the time to identify them all.
Finally, honesty and something I haven't seen since
my grandmother was alive win out. This woman has the
exact same look on her face as grandma did when she
was telling stories about my granddad who died in The
War. (To Grandma there was only ever one real war,
and you could hear the capitalization when she spoke
about it.) It's a peculiar mix of love, grief and
passive acceptance of things as they are, and just
like when I was a kid I am fascinated, humbled and
jealous all at the same time.
When she opens her mouth to speak she has put on a
mask of self-deprecation that does not, however,
manage to conceal the determination and faint hope
that have taken up residence in her eyes, testimony
to an obvious change of heart. "I suppose it would be
that I never--"
None of us notice the (also uniform clad) blond woman
until she is standing directly in front of him. It's
all I can do to keep from yelling at her to piss off,
they were in the middle of something, but, firstly,
that's hardly my line and, secondly, she leans kisses
the guy, Harm, (a little more passionately than just
'hello') and after a short period of recovery he
reciprocates in kind, forcing me to admit that, as
much as I want her gone and to hear Mac's answer, she
probably has every right to be there.
Still in the process of kissing the poor (Well, maybe
not, but you know what I mean) guy silly she casts a
glance at Mac that goes by unnoticed by no one but
Harm, who obviously has his hands full.
In the mirror I see Mac meet the other woman's eye
briefly, then look away, the grandmother-expression
back on her face.
"Jordan, hi," Harm breathes when she finally lets him
up for air.
'Jordan' smiles warmly. "Hi. Sorry I'm late," (Oh,
I'll BET you are.) "I got caught up at work. You know
how it is. Oh, hi, Mac," she adds, almost as an
afterthought.
Harm simply smiles and nods, still struggling for
control.
Jordan casts a quick glance at Mac's chair and
without a word Mac obligingly retreats to the chair
next to me, letting Jordan slide onto the stool next
to Harm.
She looks at me briefly, the ghost of an apologetic
smile on her face, and I smile back trying to keep it
friendly but not too sympathetic. Something tells me
she wouldn't really appreciate it.
Jordan chats on in a somewhat forced manner,
receiving no real help from anyone but not meeting
any open resistance either.
Harm laughs and comments when required and Mac smiles
and nods when ditto.
After a while she runs out of babble, I guess, and no
one objects to the silence that ensues.
Mac is sitting close enough for me to feel the
nervous energy that's coming off her in waves. It's
obvious she had something to say, and it's even more
obvious she's not going to say it while the other
woman (Whom I gather IS sleeping with Harm) is
around.
I'd never admit it to anyone who knew my name--and
not to an awful lot of people who don't--but I'm a
romantic at heart, (Even if that's a fact my ex-wife
would LOVE to dispute, as she does practically
everything I say.) and I've taken something of a
fancy to this beautiful dark-haired woman sitting
next to me, and so, it is only natural that I should
think that if she wants that tall fellow with his
white uniform and his perfect smile, then she
should have him. And that eventually she will.
I look at his girlfriend, who is pretty, I'll admit
it, (But then again, guys like that don't date women
that are too much short of beautiful. They leave
those for the likes of me.) and I can't help but
wonder if she realizes just how lucky she was tonight
or she's too busy worrying about when that luck runs
out.
Harm excuses himself to go to the 'head' as he so
eloquently puts it, and I'm half expecting a
confrontation, or maybe even a cat-fight. I mean,
they're in the military, right? They're supposed to
have something of a violent streak, aren't they?
They just sit there, however, and I've almost given
up hope of SOME sort of progression when Jordan
cranes her neck to look in the direction Harm went,
saying "You looked like I was interrupting something
when I came in." She actually sounds more insecure
than sarcastic, which surprises me a bit. "So...
Should I have come earlier or not at all?" She
continues, looking straight at Mac.
"Jordan, please," Mac begs weakly. Clearly she
doesn't want to get into it, and somehow I get the
feeling they have been over this before. The whole
"Are you trying to steal my man?"-business, I mean.
Jordan doesn't say anything, she simply looks at Mac
expectantly and finally the latter seems to come to
the conclusion that silence is not the best evasion-
tactic. "Look, Jordan, I told you before--" (Ha, I'm
right.) "--There's nothing going on between us."
"How do you define 'nothing', exactly?" Comes the
rather tart reply.
This time the interruption by the third of the party
is welcomed by Mac who turns back to her empty glass
the minute he appears back on my stage of the
evening.
Both women seem to think they came out of this as
winners: Jordan because she got the last word, and
Mac because she didn't have to.
Still, I can't imagine victory as being anything but
bittersweet in this case since Jordan didn't really
get an answer to any of her questions (Extending
beyond whatever conclusions she made based on Mac's
behavior.) and Mac still hasn't said her piece and
her leg is STILL bouncing up and down at a terrifying
pace.
The bartender shows up, making small talk in his
distinct Irish accent and getting everybody a refill,
ignoring my half-finished pint of beer. Like I said,
I don't really like going out, and I certainly don't
do it to get drunk. Not all that often, anyway. I can
spend hours spitting into one of these.
Especially when real-life puts on a show like this
for me.
Other people's lives, I mean, of course.
Since Harm came back Jordan hasn't made any advances
towards forcing an admission of anything from Mac.
Instead she has turned her attention to her
boyfriend, holding his hand and constantly leaning in
to kiss him or nuzzle him in a display that is, to
my, admittedly biased, mind, more nauseating than
cute.
Harm seems a little embarrassed by this public
display of affection, but his good manners (Oh, hell,
and his libido) keep him from objecting.
You'd think I'd be envious of this man who has two
(and probably quite a few more, whom I haven't seen)
women wanting him. But I'm not. Not really.
I'd like to say it's because I understand, I've been
there, walked a mile in his shoes and all that bull,
but his feet are much bigger than mine. Literally AND
figuratively.
It's just that I realize that he likes both these
women (I mean, he MUST like Jordan, or she wouldn't
be there--she's obviously not Mac's best gal-pal even
if they do put up appearances in front of the fella
and, to some extent, each other--and Mac... Well, I
won't even get into that) and at some point down the
road he's gonna have to choose between them. Even if
Jordan seemed hell-bent on making Mac choose for him
and Mac didn't seem too opposed to that idea earlier
on. Before Jordan showed up.
Either way, what I'm getting at is, he's gonna have
to hurt one of them and I don't think he likes the
idea of that. I know I wouldn't, and that's why I can
honestly say I'm not all that jealous.
Mac has sat through Harm and Jordan's make-out
session with an air of habitual indifference and
forced amusement that doesn't fool me because I don't
want it to, but which I would say that, when
confronted with the casual observer, she'd be able to
pull off rather well.
But then, I suppose enough is enough, with a final
glance at Harm, Mac finishes her drink, at a pace
that makes me and my sensitive stomach glad that
isn't (wasn't) vodka in her glass, and slides off her
stool. "I should get going," she murmurs.
Harm looks at her and for an instant I (And maybe
Mac, too, if she hadn't been so focused on NOT
looking him in the eye just then) think he is
actually going to object and ask her to stay.
Instead he just nods his consent and mumbles
something only he would ever be able to hear, which I
guess is supposed to mean goodnight.
When she finally looks at him to say goodbye he has
turned his gaze away and his expression is
unreadable.
Jordan simple smiles in happy agreement, not quite
managing to hide her satisfaction.
Just before turning around to leave Mac puts some
money on the counter to pay for her drinks, and I'm
very careful not to look at her in the mirror,
because it would be an intrusion and I don't want the
last expression I see on her face to be defeat.
It would make it impossible for me to go back to my
hotel room and dream up happy endings.
THE END