she was carrying around the double tequila, with the wheels, like a weapon.
somewhere after the 3rd drink she began to open up, still there was something difficult about reading her. she oscillated between a revelry of brashness and a quiet occlusion. he didn't think though that she was feigning, posturing as mysterious, but that she kept both hers inside of her, bottled ghosts - each one that would press against the glass for a period before the other would push its way forward.
in the background some standard dive bar song was playing, he could hear it, vaguely like smoke in the background- but in his head he heard different music.
his throws were poor. she made sure to tell him about it. it was then this turn to lean, into the frame of the darkened window and watch her. he liked those few seconds where she wasn't watching him watch her. standing there eyeing the board she wasn't able to reflect his questions or divert the conversation. she threw as was never advised- every part of her moving. the dart that skidded across the floor went unmentioned when she struck the bullseye, she turned to him immediately- her eyes flashing, each tight curl of her heritage gleaming, every inch of her a victor- dropped her voice low and said only, 'suck a dick.'
beaming in her profanity she was, he thought so definitively, beautiful.
he laughed and there she was again, all contrasts. delicate shoulders that held up a viciously competitive spirit. she took back up her glass and held it with a grace that belied the words that had come out of her mouth.
and that music only he could seem to hear hadn't stopped. and despite all the familiarity of the space and the feeling, he knew he had never exactly been here before. he was supposed to say something, but got lost in the moment, as if he life was occurring somewhere out infront of him just where he might reach it, instead of all around him. she paused, and there- in an unexpected moment, bereft of words- instead build on some strange scaffolding of unsaids he realized she liked him.
the math of time came apart. the dozen of consecutive mondays, and all the monotone moments that had begun to lay upon each other over and over like pieces of discount printer paper seemed to become suddenly unimportant.
everything everywhere was always the same, he knew it in his bones, he had felt it for days and weeks on end. he was right. and he was wrong.
for of all the times he had been in this bar, and all the moments that had run into each other without end, he had simply never been there, or had a moment, with her.
