A young man stands motionless outside the bar, staring through the well polished glass front designed to show to the world exactly how much more fun it could be having if it did but push through that two way swinging door. He pulls down hard on the front of his gray-green fedora further obscuring his mundane features and rubs his arms against the 2:00 AM chill. A white, three-fourths-sleeve thermal clings to his torso, and even in the dim streetlamp light his nipples can be seen through the thin fabric. A few ill-behaved chest hairs poke embarrassingly through, and while normally he would tug the shirt forward dislodging them, at present his attention is focused steadily deep inside the plate-glass windows, past the animated manikins of glamour and eligibility, through the throngs of flirtation to an unseen, unoccupied, round table with seating for two.
There is no such unoccupied, round table at the back of the bar and if there were it would not go unoccupied for long, but still he sees it. And as he watches the small round table a contemplative, young, fedora-ed man in a clinging white shirt pushes through the dark and blurry crowd and sits in the closer chair his back to the muted giggles and conversation that hangs in the room. A soft blue light illuminates him melodramatically like the contrived moment of anticipation just before the lead actor launches into a sad but inspiring soliloquy, as the first notes of the pit band spill into the audience. He sits stoically nursing his gin and tonic, or some such scripted drink.
Before long, another character materializes out of the shadows. She flows in from behind him brushing his arm, but he does not turn. He does not need to. Her dark wavy hair gives off the smell of lilac and basement mold. She sits in the seat that had always been reserved for her. She does not look at the contemplative, young, fedora-ed man who now shares his soft blue sheen, but instead stares impassively at the crowd behind. In contrast, the young man stares directly at her, scrutinizing her eyebrows, scouring her skin, scanning her eyes for even a flicker in his direction. It is not that she is ignoring him—she is deftly aware of the young man through a sense of acknowledged although never realized history—it is simply that eye contact is at once unnecessary and beneath her. I minute goes by before she speaks. Her Lebanese accent is rich and exotic. She says what he knew she would say, and still he laughs in earnest. Although her exterior is soft and graceful when she opens her lips her sharpness shows. It is not that she is piercing or biting. There is nothing aggressive in her attitude; it has simply been worked to a fine edge. Be careful, if you get to close the slightest bumble or most momentary trip could result in a severed limb. The young man is aware of his unworthiness, but navigates the woman keenly, and she is grateful that for once it is not her responsibility alone to keep another from injury. She can relax. She can breathe.
They talk, and laugh. Sometimes she fakes it, and he does not care. Sometimes he stares and she does not care. Both are flattered. The closer forward he leans, the further down the fedora is pulled until finally shadow covers all but his slightly cracked lips and unshaven jaw. Both know where this conversation leads, and before half an hour has passed they are pushing through the crowd, his hand on the small of her back guiding her. He tells himself he is guiding her. As they pass through the glass door they see a young man across the street, leaning against a lamp post. This young man wears a clinging white shirt and a fedora pulled so far down that the top has begun to crinkle out of shape. As they pass by they smile, but the young man just stands there not moving a muscle.
The pair reaches the intersection and turns right heading into the shadow and daze of a long street of neon and glint. The young man leaning against the lamppost watches the young man with the flowing, dark Lebanese woman by his side. There is no jealousy in his gaze, at least none worth noting. The young man walking away down the street is not him, and the young woman in the young man’s arms is not a part of his life. He has no desire to be walking down the neon and glint street, a dream in his arms, at least no desire worth noting.
The young man looks one last time through the well polished glass, nods almost imperceptibly as if in agreement with some line of thought he has been following, and walks to the intersection. He glances right and turns left striding resolutely into the ever growing blue glow of the night. Hamra is a forty-five minute walk away. He can make it by 3:30. He will sleep, and tomorrow he will go to church.
