Page 13 of Come Back To Me

David looked at me in surprise.

“What? Shut up,” I snapped. “I’m not always uptight.”

He narrowed his eyes and nodded real slow, a small smile touching his lips.

“Hey, British girl,” the bartender called. “You wearing your boots?”

I lifted a foot and waved it in the air.

“That’s right,” he said. “Those boots were made for dancing.”

David’s mouth made a little “o” like he was getting ready to ask me a question.

“Where is Brian?” I asked before he could get the words out. “Are we not supposed to be on a date?”

“He’s over there, I think,” David said. “Talking to some girl.” I peered past his shoulder and sure enough, my date was picking up some half naked blonde near the door.

“This is your fault,” I said, jabbing a finger at David.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Lying sack of shit!” I said. “You made my date fall in love withyouand then told him you’re in love with me! He backed down for you!”

“Oh come on, Yara. Maybe he wasn’t that into you.”

He was standing sideways to face me, his forearm resting on the bar.

“He’s been coming in three times a week for two months. He asks me out every single time.”

David made a face and then shook his head sadly. “Sounds kind of stalkerish, if you ask me.”

“Yeah? Takes one to know one.”

“What are you drinking, British girl?” the bartender asked.

“Your most expensive bourbon on the rocks, because this douchebag is paying,” I said.

David nodded seriously and pulled out his credit card. “Same for me. And dude, stop hitting on my girl. The boots are mine.”

The bartender eyed David with a frown. “You with this guy, British girl? Or is he hassling you?”

I glanced at David and sighed. “Unfortunately he’s my date for the night, but I’ll let you know if I need another kiss.” He winked at me and moved away to make our drinks.

We stood at the bar like that for two hours, right up until they closed. At one point Brian came over to tell us he was leaving (with the half naked girl) but we blew him off, too engrossed in our conversation.

“Have you ever had your heart broken?” I asked. “Like really just mauled and destroyed in the worst possible way.” I leaned my elbows on the bar and turned my head to look at him. I’d been waiting for an answer to this question since our last conversation.

He looked perplexed. “By a woman?”

“Yes, by a woman,” I laughed. “Or hey, by a man. Whatever.”

He shook his head. “No, I guess not. I’m usually the one to do the breaking up. When it stops feeling right, you know? I don’t want to lead her on.” He swiveled his chair from side to side, his tone light.

“That’s your problem,” I told him. “Take Bukowski, for example. He didn’t only write about his poor broken heart, but he was a bit of a mad man always on the verge of suicide and madness. He lived enough to get hurt and then he channeled it into his art.”

“Are you saying my songs lack madness?” David smiled.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” I shrugged.

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