Page 2 of Come Back To Me

“You have a little bit of orange on your face,” he said, gesturing to my cheek. I dusted it off without thanking him.

The Jane was well known for her breakfast cocktails so there was no avoiding early customers. A couple wandered in a few minutes after we opened, middle-aged and glassy-eyed. Their faces were puffy like they’d been drinking hard the night before. They ordered eggs, toast, and two spicy Bloody Marys, and then they told me about the son they dropped off at the University of Washington. A handsome boy, so smart, a future president, they assured me. His major—political science. When the woman told me he was captain of his high school debate team I wanted to gouge out my eyeballs with a toothpick. I once fucked a debate team captain, his name was a cheese—Colby…or Jack…or…Rodoric! That was it! I didn’t tell her that though. What was a pretty girl like me doing working in a bar? —they wanted to know. This was the hard part, blowing off their question like it didn’t bother me when it really did. Did I want a good tip, no customer complaints e-mailed to corporate? No, I just wanted to make it through this day, this month, this year.You should model, she said. Her husband nodded in agreement. I smiled dumbly and excused myself to get their food from the kitchen. I was not a face. I was tired of being called pretty. I was tired of people seeing my potential. I could be whoever I wanted to be, and for now, that was a bartender. Beauty was deceiving in the same way credit cards were. It felt like it was free, but there was high interest with little return. I breathed a sigh of relief when they left, but soon a different couple took their seats. Then another, and another, until it all blurred together. The morning crowd was hopeful and hungry for talk, their days not descended to shit yet.

The Jane reminded me of home. The tables and chairs were a glossy white set on top of grey concrete floors. Each one held a tiny succulent in a grey pot, which the headwaiter, Lora, lovingly took care of. A guest once tried to walk out with one of them and Lora had chased them down the street yelling in Bulgarian until they sheepishly handed it back to her. No one messed with Lora’s succulents. The bar was modern and impressive. A neon pink sign that saidAre you the creator or the created?—lit up one expansive white wall. “Very European,” I heard the guests say as they examined the space.Europe: pink and white and neon!I would think, smiling to myself.

It was defiant of the typical restaurant/bar scene in Seattle, which veered toward a chic grunge look. I took it that Kurt Cobain still had his fingers in everything, even from the grave. My home was London, an unparalleled city in every way. But, I was still searching, whoring around America till I burned off my emotional baggage. I wasn’t ready to go back yet.

I was carrying in a tray of glasses, which I had poached from the dishwasher, when I saw him. He was scooted in at the far end of the bar, the place we call no man’s land. His elbows rested right next to the container of maraschino cherries and olives I used to spruce up the drinks. I sighed because he looked like a talker. And then I recognized him.Splinter guy!I felt self-conscious and wished I’d put on fresh eyeliner this morning. Drew on new wings.

“Splinter guy!” I said.

“Oh, ouch. I’ve had better nicknames.” He grinned at me. He looked sleepy, like he’d either just rolled out of bed or he hadn’t seen one in a while.

“You ran off pretty quickly the other day,” I said. “I barely had time to thank you.”

“I had a…thing.”

“A thing?” I repeated, a half smile on my lips. It was funny when men described their philandering asa thing.

I moved a tray of freshly filled salt shakers to a different spot on the bar to make room for the rack of glasses, and gave him a sideways stare.

“You’re nosy,” he said.

I shrugged like I wasn’t and started setting the shakers on the tables.

“Okay,” he said, defensively. “There was a thing with this girl. But, I’m not seeing her anymore. It’s over.” He said“over”with a large amount of relief. I finished setting out the salt shakers and dusted my hands, watching his face.

“Why is it over? What did she do that wasn’t to your liking?”

He didn’t hesitate to answer, which surprised me since he’d just called me nosy.

“She thought we were more serious than we were. I told her in the beginning that I wasn’t looking for a relationship.”

“Right,” I said. “How many months ago was the beginning?”

“Six.” He shrugged.

“So you’re seeing this girl for half a year, fucking her I assume—”

He nodded.

“And she finally asks what’s going on with the two of you?”

“Yes,” he nods, “but that was already established from day one. We were just having fun.”

I sighed. “First of all, you’re a dick,” I said.

He opened his mouth to argue, but I held up my hand to shush him.

“It’s perfectly normal after seeing someone consistently for six months to wonder where the relationship is going.”

“But, in the beginning—”

“No,” I said. “That was the beginning. She’s not a robot. She’s a human being with feelings.”

“Okay, okay.” He held up his hands. “I’m a dick. I shouldn’t have let it go on that long without having a discussion.”

I nodded, both hands perched on my hips.

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