sunlight that had so brightly reflected off the sidewalk. An immense antique mirror covered the wall behind the bar, catching some of the light that filtered through the smoky windows and reflected it to the dark wood floor. An array of leather barstools surrounded a horseshoe-shaped bar. The bartender stood in the center with a TV tuned to ESPN on each side of the bar. Two men sat at the bar nursing drinks and watching neither of the screens. Blake took the last seat on the right side, next to the mirror, directly across from the other TV and several seats away from the men.
“Welcome to The Olive Twist,” the bartender said with a courtesy smile. Not an over the top smile and annoying chatter like you’d get at a chain restaurant. Just casting a line in the water to see how much, or how little, the customer wanted to talk, to open up to the therapeutic bartender.
Blake said nothing.
“What would you like?” she asked, sensing the mood as all good bartenders can. Still, she offered Blake a flirtatious smile as her blue eyes sparked in the sunlight that reflected off a glass jar on the counter. Blake glanced at the jar, which was the main feature on the bar top, a tall jar of Stoli Doli, a concoction of Stolichnaya vodka infused with fresh pineapple that had steeped for a week. He stared at the chunks of pineapple floating in the vodka and thought about the untold number of Stoli hangovers he had suffered from way back when. He turned his gaze back to the bartender.
“Belvedere up with a twist.”
She placed a cocktail napkin in front of Blake, twisting her body ever so slightly as she did. The space between the buttons on her white blouse separated just enough for Blake to catch a glimpse of her right breast. The glistening softness of the image burned into him, commingled with the thought of the Stoli Doli to reignite the passion he used to feel after games in Athens. When he would be on the hunt for soft skin, exotic eyes, and defined curves. In an instant, he caught himself and looked away, but not before the bartender had caught him breaking her horizon. She smiled and left.
“Damn it!” Blake mumbled, shaking his head. “That’s all you need, more trouble.”
Glancing at the clock on the wall, Blake noted that it was 4:40 p.m. He could make it home to Clayton in about an hour and a half and wanted to be home by 7:30 p.m. at the latest. Any later and Angelica might want to talk and ask a lot of questions. Questions that would cause him to snap. Blake began to fume silently as he thought about it. He hated that he snapped at Angelica...at life! He felt like he was losing control. Everything seemed so unfair. So fucking unfair!
The bartender returned with Blake’s martini. He looked up with a weak smile and nodded in thanks. She stood for an uncomfortable second before turning away, Blake’s half-hearted smile dissolving as he stared down into his drink. Blake stirred the martini, not knowing why, but he figured for the same reason he swirled the wine in his glass when dining at a nice restaurant. It wasn’t to release the bouquet or...whatever. It was because that’s what he had seen people do when he watched TV as a child in the housing projects, people like J.R. on the Dallas reruns or Blake and Crystal on Dynasty . People who were rich, who knew what they were doing and who were living the life of luxury that Blake wanted so badly when he was young. So when he got to UGA and was introduced to life beyond his drunken father’s alcohol of choice, Pabst Blue Ribbon, he did what J.R. and James Bond did. He swirled, stirred and mimicked the nuances of successful people.
Swirling the martini, Blake recalled the chicken he had squashed with his truck earlier in the day. He grimaced and felt utter remorse. Damn it, what the hell is wrong with you! The remorse turned to rage as Blake reflected on how quickly he now gave into anger, how truculent he had become. How out of control he felt. He took a deep
“Welcome to The Olive Twist,” the bartender said with a courtesy smile. Not an over the top smile and annoying chatter like you’d get at a chain restaurant. Just casting a line in the water to see how much, or how little, the customer wanted to talk, to open up to the therapeutic bartender.
Blake said nothing.
“What would you like?” she asked, sensing the mood as all good bartenders can. Still, she offered Blake a flirtatious smile as her blue eyes sparked in the sunlight that reflected off a glass jar on the counter. Blake glanced at the jar, which was the main feature on the bar top, a tall jar of Stoli Doli, a concoction of Stolichnaya vodka infused with fresh pineapple that had steeped for a week. He stared at the chunks of pineapple floating in the vodka and thought about the untold number of Stoli hangovers he had suffered from way back when. He turned his gaze back to the bartender.
“Belvedere up with a twist.”
She placed a cocktail napkin in front of Blake, twisting her body ever so slightly as she did. The space between the buttons on her white blouse separated just enough for Blake to catch a glimpse of her right breast. The glistening softness of the image burned into him, commingled with the thought of the Stoli Doli to reignite the passion he used to feel after games in Athens. When he would be on the hunt for soft skin, exotic eyes, and defined curves. In an instant, he caught himself and looked away, but not before the bartender had caught him breaking her horizon. She smiled and left.
“Damn it!” Blake mumbled, shaking his head. “That’s all you need, more trouble.”
Glancing at the clock on the wall, Blake noted that it was 4:40 p.m. He could make it home to Clayton in about an hour and a half and wanted to be home by 7:30 p.m. at the latest. Any later and Angelica might want to talk and ask a lot of questions. Questions that would cause him to snap. Blake began to fume silently as he thought about it. He hated that he snapped at Angelica...at life! He felt like he was losing control. Everything seemed so unfair. So fucking unfair!
The bartender returned with Blake’s martini. He looked up with a weak smile and nodded in thanks. She stood for an uncomfortable second before turning away, Blake’s half-hearted smile dissolving as he stared down into his drink. Blake stirred the martini, not knowing why, but he figured for the same reason he swirled the wine in his glass when dining at a nice restaurant. It wasn’t to release the bouquet or...whatever. It was because that’s what he had seen people do when he watched TV as a child in the housing projects, people like J.R. on the Dallas reruns or Blake and Crystal on Dynasty . People who were rich, who knew what they were doing and who were living the life of luxury that Blake wanted so badly when he was young. So when he got to UGA and was introduced to life beyond his drunken father’s alcohol of choice, Pabst Blue Ribbon, he did what J.R. and James Bond did. He swirled, stirred and mimicked the nuances of successful people.
Swirling the martini, Blake recalled the chicken he had squashed with his truck earlier in the day. He grimaced and felt utter remorse. Damn it, what the hell is wrong with you! The remorse turned to rage as Blake reflected on how quickly he now gave into anger, how truculent he had become. How out of control he felt. He took a deep
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