Midnights In Paris | Jenlisa

Handle With Care

She doesn't know what she's doing, standing there, leaning on the counter of the bar, a glass in her hand. She watches the bartender as she pours drink after drink, each action as smooth as the next and the one before. There's passion and precision in what she does and Lisa can't help but feel like she's done everything wrong with her life.

From where she's standing, she looks tall, even taller than Lisa, but she knows that it's mostly because she's standing on a platform. Her arms are lean, but tonic and Lisa notices with a hint of surprise how she doesn't have one tattoo on her skin.

Her ears then pick up the voice of a guy approaching the bar and placing an order. His hand is big but trembles lightly as he hands out a twenty dollar bill over the counter.

"Whiskey on the rock, as strong as you can make it" he says, without a hint of irony in his voice.

She kind of expects the bartender to say something cliché like "Rough night?" Or whatever they made them say in movies but, as she watches her nod her head firmly, her blonde hair swinging in her pony tail, and saying nothing back, Lisa realizes that she has watched far too many rom coms in her life.

She observes her pour the equivalent of two drinks in one before she takes the bill straight from his hand and gives him the rest, not one flirtatious exchange.

"Need a refill?"

Suddenly, a low voice shakes her up from her day, or should she say night, dreaming. There it is, Lisa thinks, that's the cliché she was waiting for. She almost has to look around to look for the owner because it could not possibly come from the hundred pound blonde girl standing in front of her.

"Yes, actually" she watches the glass, already empty in her hand "but I want it to be a surprise"

Lisa smiles, not feeling like letting any of the reasons she is standing alone at a bar on a Friday night escape from her.

"You have no idea how many times people ask me this" this time there's a hint of a smile on her mouth, but if Lisa hadn't been so attentive, she probably would have missed it.

"Really?"

"What drink am I? What drink do you think I usually order?- I get all sort of stuff" the woman says, while passing the table with a cloth. And Lisa keeps her eyes on her, her actions bringing her peace and calm in a not so quiet place.

"Then what about me?"

She leans over the counter, a hand sustaining her head. If it leans lightly to one side, Lisa tells herself it isn't because she's trying to flirt with the hot bartender. Even if it's exactly what it looks like. 

"You?" And the message was received from the counterpart. Loud and clearly.

"An americano. You look sweet at first, but are actually a little sour, unless you're made by skilled hands" the woman answers with a smirk on his face. Lisa pretends she doesn't like the attention.

"Is that an invitation?"

She fails.

"It could be"

She knows that what she's doing is wrong. She knows it when her fingers hold the phone she uses to call a cab, she knows it when they press the call button of the back elevator, the one that takes her straight to her apartment, escaping the neighbors inquisitive looks. But she knows it especially as she puts the keys in the keyhole and her hands tremble. Because she knows that no one's home.

Yet, even as her mind keeps reminding her that every step she takes and every minute that passes she is still in time to reverse all this, and pretend that nothing happened. A moment of weakness, that's how she would call it within the perimeters of her mind.