Page 40 of Because of Dylan

The sharp screech of a barstool being dragged hurts my ear. I have a new customer.

“Be right with you.” I close the cash register and give Pittsburgh guy his change. He’s had enough teasing for tonight. He pushes a five back into my direction.

I smile. “Thanks! You never know, they could come back.”

He touches his cap. “Maybe.”

I pocket the money and turn to my new customer, still smiling. My feet stop so suddenly, I almost pitch forward.

Professor Dick. What the heck is he doing here? I look over his shoulder and back toward the door, and then again in the restrooms’ direction.

“No, Tommy is not here. It’s just me, Miss Jones.” He taps the scratched wood top, answering my unasked question.

I want to ask what the hell is he doing here, but rein in my inner bitch. “What can I get you?”

“A Dos Equis.” It’s a repeat of what he had the last time he was here. I don’t ask if he wants the lime this time, just add it to the bottle, and slide it in his direction, making sure to avoid the few inches of space between my hands and him. He catches it, pushes the lime all the way in, and brings the bottle to his lips. He has beautiful hands, long fingers, like a pianist. Hands that create instead of hurting.

“Do you play the piano?” The question is out of my mouth before I realize what I’m saying. What the hell? What do I care if he plays or not?

He hesitates, the tip of the bottle paused on his bottom lip, a tiny lime pulp touching it. His gaze on my face. He lowers the bottle without drinking, the tiny pulp stays behind, and his tongue comes out and captures it. My entire body freezes. I hold my breath, and then inhale as if by doing so I could rewind time like the old VCR player we had when I was a kid. As if I could take that question back or my eyes away from his lips.

My toes curl inside my sneakers. I cross my arms over my chest, chin up in defiance. Muscle memory takes over. I brace myself for mockery or insult. Neither comes.

“I play. Did Tommy tell you?”

My head denies his question first with a slight shake. “No.”

He tilts his head; curiosity tinges his beautiful face. “How did you know?”

I shrug.

His long and tanned fingers with short, clean nails tap the aged wood top of the bar again. He waits for an answer.

I force my shoulders to relax. Uncrossing my arms, I gesture toward his hand. “Your hands. You have the hands of a pianist.”

His eyes widen, his brows arching in response to my words. He’s surprised by my answer. I like that I put a chink in his shallow view of me.

He grabs his beer, takes a long pull. The lime inside bobbing with each gulp.

He points at me with the bottle's neck. “Do you play?”

“No, always wanted to. Never learned.” Jesus! Why am I talking to him?

“Never too late.”

“Yeah, well, piano lessons are expensive. And time consuming. I’m running on a time deficit as it is.”

He chuckles at that. “Aren’t we all? Time is like a dog chasing its tail. Just when you think you got it, you have to let go, and start all over again.”

“Much like a dog chasing its tail, I don’t think we’re meant to catch time.”

He takes another drink, the bottle almost empty. “No?”

“No. To use your dog analogy, if time is the tail, then it should be as nature intended. It stays behind while you look forward. Time will pass anyway. Trying to look back and catch up with it only wastes the time you have now.” The words come to me with such a clarity. I’ve been thinking so much about my past over the last few days, weighing what the therapist said against my own perceptions. And now—just now—because of what Professor Dick said, everything clicks into place. Like a dog chasing its tail, I’ve been chasing and holding on to my past. And like a dog, when it finally catches up and bites its tail, it only hurts itself.

He looks at me, eyes narrowing with intensity, the amber color hidden behind thick, dark lashes. The bottle dangles an inch above the bar top by three fingertips. He takes the last sip. Tilts the bottle on its edge, rolling it back and forth in a semicircle, the neck dangling from his fingers.

“That’s an interesting concept, Miss Jones.” He lets go of the empty bottle, and it wobbles for a second before standing still. He reaches for his jeans pocket and pulls out a twenty. “Good night, Miss Jones.”

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