Read Online Talk by Michael A Smerconish - Free Book Online Page A

smelled special. While I never remembered to wear cologne, she had a scentthat reminded me of the feminine bars of soaps my mother used to stick in my underwear drawer no matter how often I told her to stop. The only thing we seemed to have in common was where we worked, and even that separated us. For me, Shooter’s was a real job. For her, it was a way to make money for college at FSU. The thought entered my mind that maybe for the first time in my life, I was somebody else’s sympathy fuck. Which wouldn’t have been so bad, if only I’d delivered. Not having done so only made me want her again.
    Stepping out of the freezer and back into the bar, we went back to work without another word spoken between us, and for the rest of the night, I kept looking at her, watching for some sign or signal about what it meant. But there was nothing. Every time she walked up to the bar carrying her tray, she gave me a drink order just as she always did, with absolutely no hint of emotion or recognition in her voice about what had just taken place.
    â€œI need three drafts of Bud and two shots of Turkey.”
    On any other night, I’d have gone home with some sense of conquest. Instead, by the time I shut down the sound system and walked out to my car, I was feeling pretty miserable, and partly convinced I’d dreamt the whole thing.
    Over the next few nights, she remained all business, acting like it had never happened. I, of course, could think of nothing but those few moments in the freezer. All day long and behind the bar at night, I replayed the scene over and over in my mind. Her scent. That skirt. The haste. And every time I went out back to retrieve a case of beer, I’d survey the space like it was a crime scene around which I was about to hang yellow tape. Then I’d wonder if it had really happened at all.
    Finally I decided that I needed to say something but couldn’t decide what it should be.
    â€œMy knees are weak again.”
    â€œIt’s hot as hell in here, but I know a place where we could cool down.”
    â€œFeel like giving me a hand with some kegs?”
    Everything I came up with sounded too damned juvenile. She had me in a funk, totally intimidated, and from that sense of vulnerability, feeling even more attracted to her. The lines continued to run through my mind. What I really wanted to say was, “Give me another shot.” I wondered what college fraternity guys said when they were laying their rap on a coed, but I was clueless. Nothing I came up with sounded right. So that’s what I said: nothing. And fortunately in the end, I didn’t need to.
    â€œHow long is ‘Stairway to Heaven’?” she asked me on a slow Wednesday night after I’d spent about five days in purgatory. I was so caught off guard that I was about to give her a serious answer—about eight minutes—when she suddenly turned and walked away.
    Now I personally loved that song, but knew it was a barroom loser. Nobody chugged (or tipped) until the final Jimmy Page guitar riff, so I never played it. This night, however, I made an exception. Hell, I’d have played Barry Manilow singing “Mandy” if I thought it’d do the trick.
    So just as soon as the house band signaled for a break, I cranked the system.
    Two minutes later, Envy was on top of me in the freezer. I looked into those green eyes up close, then buried my face in her neck, and as we embraced our lips met, providing a sense of intimacy that had been missing in our first encounter. I could hear the faint sounds of the music although I couldn’t make out any of the words being sung. I doubt I lasted until the point where John Bonham kicked in with the drums, but it wasn’t as bad as the first night. Which in itself was quite an achievementgiven that I’d been thinking of little else all week. Again, there was nothing said when it ended, but I wasn’t about to push my luck by acting