Watching for Comets

Friday

That night started out like any other. I got to work on time and started setting up the bar. Shortly after, the band that was scheduled to play showed up and began unpacking their instruments and equipment. The cacophony of their footsteps back and forth across the stage became white noise to my own work. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the band members – or possibly a roadie – watching me from the stage. Every time I turned around, he got a little bit closer. I politely pretended not to notice until he was practically staring me in the face from a few feet away.

"Can I help you?" I said stiffly, admittedly a little freaked out. I was used to curious or disapproving glances from the way I dressed, but people usually didn't stare at me quite so intently.

He slipped into one of the seats at the bar like he had been meaning to do that all along. "Is it too early for a drink?" he tried to ask casually.

"What can I get you?" I flipped over the glass I had been drying and took a subtle step towards the beer taps in anticipation. Rock musicians and the people who traveled with them tended to order the same thing.

But this one surprised me. "You have cassis?"

"Sure," I answered, once I took a moment to recover from the unexpected request. "We have just about every liquor." I gestured at the shelves along the back wall. Regardless of the usual clientele, my discriminating boss insisted on keeping a full stock of possibilities.

"A shot of that in a ginger ale, please."

I raised an eyebrow. A cocktail and a "please"? "ID?" I held out my hand, and he slapped a driver's license into my palm. It was from the UK, so it took me a second to find the birth date on it. Of course, it was the only date in the past. I was able to do the math quickly since it was only a month away from my own birthday. He was my age – 22 – which made me feel better about carding him. The photo sported a more subdued hairstyle than the sky-high quiff he was wearing now. The swirl and platinum color made it look like he had gone to a soft serve ice cream parlor instead of a salon.

"The UK, huh?" I prompted as I handed him back his ID and started on his drink, pouring cassis liqueur into a high ball glass. "You don't have much of an accent."

"I've only lived there for a few years." His gaze followed my hands as I added the ginger ale, the dark syrup swirling up into the soda.

"Where are you from originally?"

When he didn't answer right away, I debated how to apologize for asking such a personal question. I didn't usually make chitchat with the musicians; then again, they usually didn't come up to the bar alone.

"Ohio," he finally said, the polite smile faltering.

"Oh, cool. I've spent my whole life here in DC," I said breezily, hoping to brush off what was clearly an uncomfortable subject for him. After setting the finished drink down in front of him, I stepped back and busied myself with drying more glasses to show I wouldn't bother him anymore. At the same time, I couldn't help but try and sneak glances at him every now and then. With the soft face and edgy style, he was easy on the eyes.

"I like your snake bites," he said, sipping at his drink.

My hand slipped as I replaced the glass on the counter, causing it to rattle against its brethren. I peeked out at his face from behind my bangs. I was often on the receiving end of such a compliment, but it usually didn't sound so... flirty. Was it possible his true motive for coming up to the bar was to talk to me? "Th-thanks..." I held his gaze for a second; that soft smile looked good on him. "I like your tattoos," I offered in return.

He grinned, holding out his colorful arms. "Yeah?"

Yeah. I would love to examine them more closely. Run my fingers along those biceps. Ink peeked out over the collar of his v-neck shirt as well.