As tears go by

// 5 Nightclub Lady Marilyn

She was sitting on a bar stool. The only light was coming from over the counter, and bathed her glass in a dim jaundiced halo. She asked the lanky bartender for a shot of Kümmel. He complied, and after pouring it, disappeared in a corner of the dark cave which was the club with all the lights off.

The tang of the cigarettes of the previous night drifted heavily in the air. The white piano behind her was silent. The mirrors on the wall reflected a pale dim haze. The purple velvet love seats needed a brush up from the print of the bodies they welcomed the previous night. Men stared at the strippers. Men patted lap dancers' hips. Women whispered in men's ears about getting laid in a behind-the-scenes for a hundred euros. After all, Remos' black tracksuit wasn't misplaced. She looked like an off-the-clock blond Slav hooker, who smoked the last fag of the night - or - the first one of the day, checked her Facebook account on her mobile before a deserved shut-eye until well into the afternoon.

She gulped down the pony in one full swig. The liqueur hit her, but she did feel any better. She kept sensing the waves in her head, and the salt all over her tongue as she still was in the water. She helped herself with another shot of Kümmel. As she nursed the cold glass, she wondered what she was doing in that forgotten place drinking cumin and fennel liqueur at nine o'clock in the morning. The waves of the sea were still inside her, the liqueur wasn't strong enough to push them away. Remo was wrong about the healing virtues of the spirits. Before she could find an answer, "Are you drinking, milk?" asked a scratchy voice by her.

She flinched and eyed the man. She studied him and liked what she saw. He was a lean tall guy with a crew cut, the air of a badass, and smiling eyes; he dressed high-end, but not in a flashy way as a pimp would do. The waves and the sea left her mind and she decided to play the game.

"Kümmel, I left the milk for you," she smiled at him. She was a little bit drunk and needed company. The days spent adrift on the orange dinghy had upset her in a way that never happened before. Not even in the Chechen forests, as a teenager, she was so desperate and alone.

The man with smiling eyes grabbed her glass and smelled the content. "Liqueur at nine o'clock in the morning? You must have an iron stomach. Let's sit on the sofa. If you want to waste yourself out, I am willing to offer you a Cartizze with some fresh fish sandwiches to gulp down. I am here every morning for breakfast, they know what I like." He said and smiled gently the way. At his wrist he sported an expensive wrist watch in ceramic, a Rado.

She stood up, wobbled, and met his eyes. "Deal."

He smiled, stood up, looked at her in the eyes, and showed her the way.

She followed him a tad annoyed, making him pay his go-getting. She had to be careful. She was in danger, not at that very moment, yet soon she would be. However, now she needed some rest and a friendly hug, so to speak.

They sidled beside the white piano. Over it, an ashtray full of half smoked fags stained with red lipstick, dirty glasses and an empty Johnny Walker black label whiskey bottle. He put his hand around her hips and headed for her small back, casually as a predator barrels down on the game. She pushed his hand away gently and smiled. They sat on the purple sofa. She folded her long wild legs. A minute later the silent lanky bartender came over with the bottle of Cartizze and a plate full of fresh fish sandwiches. He set everything over the small round table in front of them. He got hold of the Cartizze bottle and uncorked it. Poured the sassy wine in the stem glasses, put the bottle on the table and walked away.

"Before drinking, help yourself with some food, sweetie, or you are going to drop under the table," he said smiling at her.

She met his eyes, kept quiet, and complied a couple of times.