Caitlin tasted
like smoke.
She had
reservations, he could tell in her careful demeanor, in the quiet
nervous way in which she constantly attended to the task of pushing
her read hair behind her ears. So they talked slowly, like two people
circling each other. Some questions found answers, others were deftly
parried. They sat for some time like that, talking across some
seemingly unbreachable gap, on the long bar, the lights dimmed and
the rain picked up.
The conversation
languished and with his hand on the small of her back, they exited
one bar for another. He was a stranger not only to her, but here so
she picked. And as they walked in silence, her smoking, and him
staring down the street he assumed led to their intended destination
he thought on how similar this particular part of broad street was to
so many other places he had once lived.
Caitlin tasted
like smoke.
The bar she picked
was her own. He could tell, he remembered very acutely that wonderful
feeling of having a place one felt comfortable. They sat and she
order and they played one four twenty four. He feigned dismay as she
won nearly every turn, but every dollar he turned over to her he
though was well spent, her laughter would tumble out of her.
It was a beautiful
flitting thing, a laugh that pirouetted with the joy of little girl.
Her eyes were so light they were nearly clear, and the dress she had
chosen was dark, over the knee, and the prettiest she owned. He could
tell.
Caitlin tasted
like smoke.
A band was setting
up. She asked him a question and choked down her room temperature
shot of gin- rule of the house, the consequence of an errant die. He
told her about this boy he had seen in birmingham in a strip mall
bar. He wasn't much to look at thin with shaggy blonde hair, and he
assended the makeshift stage shirtless he couldn't have been much
older than eighteen. But the sound that came from the guitar for the
next twenty five minutes he would never forget. The boy played with a
frantic youthful energy, building a cathedral of sound moment by
moment.
She said that the
best things in life were like that, surprises in ordinary places.
Caitlin tasted
like smoke.
This bars band
began, and he thought while it was not like that night in alabama, it
was still quite something. The sound of the four of them and the way
the girl wailed filled all the empty spaces.
Instincts take over
in small places full of sound. The crowded swayed in their silence,
and when a passerby nudged her without thought he braced her.
He thought then he
had forgotten, or almost forgotten, how soft girls were. He
maneuvered her on to the stool, her skin so pale had taken on a
drunken glow. There nose to nose they lingered.
The sound stop and
the room gave up the ghost. Unfettered what was once whole drifted
apart and the choir of individual conversations rose and their moment
dissipated.
Caitlin tasted
like smoke.
He walked her to her
apartment, a block and a half from the bar. The kiss seemed conceived
in e that lingering moment nose to nose even if it was born on her
porch. And what followed was mostly the inertia of the alcohol. But
there in the yellow haze of the exterior lights, he heard a little
lustful gasp. And as only a sound can do he remembered what he had
not be able to feel for months.
A timid invitation
and his less than graceful decline.
Walking he lost
himself again, in a memory. He couldn't remember how many times he
done it. Made those sounds on an empty sidewalk. It seemed all great
repetition: his footsteps, the blocks, the nights, the particular
feeling of walking home alone. The only thing he found that could
break that terrible feeling were was clinging to a little truth.
And as all the
particular drifted into commonalities he did his best to remember
what couldn't be ignored.