O'Reilly's
Georgetown
1038, EST
"Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle, assise au près du feu, dévidant et filant…" I look up at the ceiling as I try to remember the first stanza of my French assignment. Why English majors still have to take a foreign language is beyond me, and I sigh in frustration.
Jack comes up behind me and slings his gangly arm over my shoulder. Peering over me, he picks up the tattered piece of white paper that I've crumpled in frustration a dozen times this week. "Deerez, chawntant mys veries," he tries and then looks down at me. "What the hell's this?"
I grab the paper back from him and smooth it out over the counter. "It's my French assignment. Please don't try and speak French ever again in my presence, all right?"
He snorts and leans down to whisper in my ear, his breath tickling my neck. "Whatever you say, Keel." He straightens and moves out from behind the bar to back to his task of setting tables. "Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant…" I recite as I dry the pile of dishes in front of me. I hear the door chime jingle in announcement of a patron. I look up and say, "We're not open for another hour."
The woman stops in her tracks and simply looks at me, as if she doesn't comprehend what I say. I cock my head and look at her; she looks like hell in a handbasket. She blinks a few times and then nods, turning to leave.
"Wait," I find myself calling. She turns, her trench coat falling against her leg, and waits for me to continue. "I, uh, I suppose we have room for you…do you want a cup of coffee or something?"
She nods and then moves up to the bar. I can hear her bones creak in protest as she climbs up on the barstool. I quickly pour her a cup of freshly brewed coffee and set it in front of her. "You want cream? Sugar?"
She shakes her head and takes a sip of the coffee, making a face as the hot liquid enters her system. "Thanks," she finally manages, looking at me square in the face for the first time. Her dark almond eyes are tired, as is the rest of her body. Her chestnut hair falls limply around her face. I can't help but stare at her; it's as if she's carrying all the weight on the world on her shoulders and has no idea how to handle it.
But before I can ask her anything, she turns my poem towards her and smiles as she reads the words. "I loved Ronsard in college."
I smile and turn my head sideways to look at the paper. "Yeah, he does seem to have a way with words…when I can translate them correctly."
She smiles, her long, delicate fingers playing with the edges of the paper. Her forehead crinkles slightly as she continues to read. "I don't remember this one very well."
I nod my head, indicating the paper. "Basically, Ronsard is telling Hélène she'll be a better person because she was loved by him."
She chuckles sardonically, bringing the mug to her lips, her eyes never leaving the paper. "Arrogant French."
I shrug. "Arrogant men."
Now she looks up at me, and there is a spark of something indefinable in her eyes. "That's true," she finally says softly, taking another sip of her coffee. She pushes the paper back towards me, saying, "If you need to be doing other things, I understand…I really appreciate you letting me sit down. I just, uh, needed to clear my head a bit."
Rule number 45 of bartending: when a patron tells you that 'they understand if you have other things to do', that means get the hell away and leave them for quiet time. I nod and smile at her, knowing she'll probably call me back if she wants to talk. I go back to the backside of the bar, avoiding a collision with Jack as he blatantly checks me out while carrying the lunch dishes, and I roll my eyes. All is quiet in O'Reilly's for a few minutes until the phone rings. Jack's over pretending to work, and I'm closest, so I head back up to the front of the bar.
"O'Reilly's…what?" I ask, looking at the phone. "No, I'm perfectly happy with my long-distance condom carrier, thank you. Uh-huh. Bye." I hang up the phone and smile contritely at our lone patron, who happened to seat herself right by the phone, and who is now looking at me rather curiously. "Excuse me just one second." I climb up on the bar and yell, "Jack, you are the *biggest* prick I have ever met!"
I climb down, greeted by another very confused look from the woman. I shrug and explain, rolling my eyes, "Every week, Jack over there gets his brother to call me and say obscene things."
She nods, a smile flitting across her features. "He likes you."
I get the coffee and refill her cup. "Who, Jack? Forget it."
"It's called unresolved sexual tension." She chuckles sardonically once more. "I know all about it."
I say nothing at this, figuring she'll continue if she wants to. Her forehead crinkles again and she looks up at me. "Do you have that poem you were working on earlier?"
I nod, pulling it out of my apron's pocket. I smooth it out and hand it to her. She looks over it, then points to the last stanza. "Vivez, si m'en croyez, n'attendez à demain," she reads, then looks back up at me. "Live, if you believe me, don't wait until tomorrow."
I nod. "Yeah, that's right."
She pushes the paper back towards me and rubs her face with her hands. "If only it were that easy."
I'm not quite sure what to make of that particular comment, so I simply wait for her to continue. She cocks her head, looking at me so intensely that I desperately want to look away. "I know you," she finally says. "I was in here, about a month and a half ago, with a tall sailor…" She trails off, actually laughing. "Like you'd remember, right?"
I shake my head. Rule number 51: always remember your patrons. "No, I remember you…he ordered a Guinness, you ordered a tonic water with a twist of lime."
She looks at me incredulously and I simply shrug. She sighs, playing with the coffee saucer. "I came in here that night because I knew what I wanted. I stopped waiting. And now…" She trails off, sighing heavily again.
"You don't know what you want?" I ask gently, my curiosity getting the better of my bartender's judgment.
Her head flies up, eyes widening. "Oh, no, I know *exactly* what I want. It's him that hasn't got a damn clue."
"He was in here about two weeks ago, worried sick about you, if that makes you feel any better," I offer lamely, and she just chuckles again.
"It was warranted then—I was shot, after all," she says sarcastically, shaking her head. "No, since then he's been distant, avoiding me. I don't understand him, and I'm so damn frustrated I don't even know what to do with myself."
"Did you ask him about it?" I ask, leaning down and noticing her military uniform; she could totally beat the crap out of anyone who pissed her off.
She waves her hand in the air. "I have tried every last tactic I can think of, short of holding him at gunpoint until he talks to me. Rationally," she pauses, running a hand through her hair, "rationally, I know it's just part of his personality to be distant sometimes, and to keep something from me…but am I such a fool that I thought getting romantically involved with him meant I had a little more access?"
I know it's a rhetorical question, so I remain quiet. She looks up at the mirrored glass behind me, staring at her reflection. Slowly, she brings a hand up to her porcelain cheek, running her fingers down the smooth skin. She traces the outline of her eyes, simply looking, a smile finally breaking through those very features. I desperately want to know what the hell is going in her head, but am interrupted once again by the door opening and closing. I glance quickly and my suspicions are right; her sailor in shining dress whites has arrived. She must feel his presence, because she turns halfway and offers a sheepish smile.
The man smiles back, not noticing me, simply looking back at her. It's one of the sweetest things in the world, a man who's in love. I back slowly away to the other end of the bar, giving them what little privacy they can have at the beginning of the lunch rush. Jack comes up behind me and lays his big old head on my shoulder as I turn to watch the interlude. "You're so nosy, Keely," he admonishes, hands lightly grazing my waist. I purse my lips and shrug out of his touch, watching the couple as he sits down next to her and starts trying to earnestly explain himself. She touches his cheek mid-sentence and just shakes her head. I can see her say, "It's not important."
He smiles beatifically at her, and my heart melts even more.
"Keely Shannon, stop gawking and start serving!" My Uncle Shaun reprimands, coming from the kitchen. I wave a hand at him, continuing to watch the interlude. He's touching her now, mimicking her earlier motion, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on her face. In a split second, I realize what she was looking at; the worry, the age that had lined her face not more than forty-five minutes ago is gone with his mere presence. I smile, starting to gather menus. I turn my back for a split second, and they are gone when I turn back, the door clanging at their departure.
I'll see them again, I think to myself, as I half-unconsciously whack Jack on the ass with the menus. I'll see another one of those interludes.
And I can't wait.
End Ch. 4
