The Bartender

Chapter 5: Love at a Bar

 There's this poet whose work I enjoy reading. He often writes about sentimental, unnecessary things—stories about his wife, his son, the like; in other words, he's one of those cheesy poets. He generally weaves his stories with superfluous imagery and superficial words, choosing to lack in figurative language so that he can exaggerate his emotions. And his emotions, they usually range from anywhere between despair and, well... despair. It seems that after all these years—maybe ten, since that's when I first found him—there's only one emotion that he can portray: despair. Not quite a range if a range at all, but he is able to portray it rather well. Anyway, despite his lack of credentials and lack of talent, I enjoy reading his poems, especially the ones where he writes about women.

For some reason, his words speak to me in a somewhat unconventional way. Or at least, in my terms, I would define it as that. I can understand how he feels, why he thinks the way he does, and overall, his pain. Because of him, he has made me, someone who's not interested in poetry, or literature, or anything of the like, to be practically infatuated with it. Only his, of course. Because of that, I have found myself reading poem after poem, collection after collection—everything he writes; I've read it all. Not because I have experienced the same experiences—ha! I'm not that much of a sucker—but because I am one of those people: one of those people that he dreads.

Every time I read one of his poems, I can't help but crack a smile, crack a little smirk. Just knowing what those women could've thought, might've thought, likely have thought, just brings a little bit more joy into my normal world of words and numbers. It reminds me of how I have to plan each interaction, each word I speak, so that in the end, I will get the result that I want; in the end, someone's legs will wrap around me and someone's tears will hit my face. That I deserve. And I'm not saying this because I'm a sadist—honestly, I hate giving people pain or suffering even if they like it. However, just the feeling of knowing that they feel this way, it makes me feel... powerful, maybe? I guess that's a good enough word. And although I might be called an awful human being for doing these things—these things that society condemns—I can't help but find myself coming back to these places with no clear romantic intention in mind.

Sliding into the seat of the bar, I leaned forward and looked at the barista with eyes filled with intention. "Hello," I greeted smoothly. I searched her body for a name tag but found none. Smiling, I requested, "Miss, please give me something that's as sweet as you."

She smiled and chuckled, her eyes crinkling, forming pleasant crow's feet. "I'll try to find something." With that, she turned her back to me. I watched as her lithe hips wiggled as she reached for some glasses. She was standing on her toes, the tips of her soles, and just by the way her body was trembling, it almost looked like she was going to trip. However, after some reaching, she caught a grasp of a bottle and a glass and came back down to Earth. Turning back around, she poured me a glass and pushed it forward to me.

"Here," she said, still bearing a smile, "it's a margarita."

Teasingly, I asked, "I don't get a lime with that, miss?"

Innocently, she cocked her head. "Do they usually come with limes?"

Hurriedly, a man came running back behind the bar and snatched the drink with me. His face frozen with a sudden, forced smile, he apologized. "Sorry, sir. I apologize for her mistake—she's still new."

He pursed his lips and threw her a look. She looked away with a miserable smile.

Looking back, his face now holding a professional smile, he started cleaning a glass. "As an apology, I will make any drink for you on the house."