Cues

The faint reek of cigarette smoke tickles my nose as I push into my hometown’s dingiest dive bar for the third time this week. My mouth waters as the aroma of cheap, greasy fries and fatty meat cuts through the dank mix of sweat and liquor breath. I drag my gaze across the room to find nothing of particular interest; two grizzled men sit at the bar mumbling to each other as a couple of college kids play a very unconvincing game of pool in the corner. I flash a crooked smile at the bartender and hop into my usual seat by the wall. He rolls his eyes and slides over a beer, barely acknowledging my existence.

“This is no way to treat your number one customer, Ty,” I chide, taking a long sip of my beer and watching as he polishes a glass with an amount of concentration the likes of which would put even the most attentive barkeep to shame. I would’ve thought it admirable if I didn’t know it was simply to ignore me.

“I’m busy,” he replies in complete monotone, giving the poor glass a break and moving to wipe down the counter.

“With what? Getting the stick out of your ass?”

“If my boss sees you in here he’s going to be pissed,” he warns, ignoring my comment. I wave it off, glancing back at the door to make sure I have a clear exit should I need to leave in a hurry.

“I’m not worried about him, I’m asking about you. Are you still mad about last week?” 

“‘Still?’ You almost got me fired.”

“He’s your uncle, he’s not gonna fire you,” I assure, shaking my head.

“Hazel,” he snaps, eyes suddenly serious. I purse my lips.

“I’m sorry, I told you I’m sorry! I didn’t know the guy was gonna flip out on me,” I admit, throwing my hands up. “And I appreciate that you didn’t let him beat me to a pulp.” A smirk pulls at the side of his mouth. He bites his cheek to hide it. I notice anyway.

“I’m just glad you didn’t get hurt,” he says finally, “but you need to be more careful. If you’d stop hanging around here lying your ass off to leech as many free drinks off my customers as possible, your liver and I would be much better off.” I scoff at the lecture, glancing out the window. Every few minutes a car streaks past in the darkness, disrupting the otherwise empty street. The place is unusually slow, even for a random Thursday. I’m thinking up an excuse as to why I can’t pay for my drink when the door behind me opens with a creak. I glance back, my heart stuttering for a few beats as my tired eyes train on the goddess of a woman approaching me. I see her lips move, reasoning after a moment that she must be speaking.

“What?” I say after a few seconds of dazed gawking, watching her settle down in the seat next to me.

“I asked if this place is any good or if I should go to the bar down the street,” she says again, the slight rasp in her voice reverberating through my bored brain and setting it alight with curiosity. The skintight dress hugging her hips protests as she crosses her legs and leans her elbows on the bar with a sigh.

“I don’t know, I’ve never been here,” I lie, swirling the remains of my beer around the bottom of my bottle. She hums and calls Tyler over, ordering something with more liquor than even I would indulge in before 8pm.

“Don’t wanna remember tonight by tomorrow, huh?” I joke, side eyeing her. A wisp of black hair clings to her bare shoulder, mussing her flawless appearance. I watch her over the rim of my bottle, contemplating the patchy makeup under her eyes. My dull nails trace the ridges of the rough wood grain as the warmth from the alcohol finally catches up to my veins along with a healthy dose of unearned confidence. Certainly seems like she could use a drinking buddy.

“Not really,” she shrugs, picking up her glass and downing half in one gulp.

“Woof. That bad, huh?”

“Some idiot guy stood me up, that’s all. He wasn’t worth the effort anyway,” she says matter-of-factly.

“I’ll drink to that,” I say, raising my empty bottle, “My date didn’t show either.” Ty shoots me a warning glance, but I ignore him. 

“Oh?” she says, eyeing my outfit. I glance down at my ripped jeans and stained t-shirt, realizing I forgot to make an effort to look nice before hopping in my beat up 1999 Honda Civic and puttering on down here to cause trouble. Not exactly ‘date material’ compared to the picture of elegance before me.

“It was a casual thing,” I say dismissively, looking longingly at her glass. She notices and flags down Tyler again who slides me my usual before I can even open my mouth to order. “Thanks,” I say coldly, shooting him a glare when my new friend isn’t looking. Obviously he’s not in the mood to play into my antics. “Seems like you’re more of a gentleman than your date, buying me a drink and all. How can I repay you?”

“I’m sure the pleasure of your company will be payment enough after the day I’ve had,” she smiles, taking another swig. I convince myself the redness creeping up my cheeks is because of the alcohol and gesture to the now empty pool table.

“Do you play?” I ask, sliding off the stool and grabbing my drink off the counter. She follows, surveying the area as I swirl my finger in the condensation on the outside of my glass.

“That depends, are you any good?” she counters, carefully selecting a cue from the wall behind us. 

“Sometimes,” I smile, picking one at random and dropping two quarters into the machine. In truth, I’m piss poor at pool, especially when I’m drunk. Still, it’s something to do. Colorful balls clunk into the tray on the side of the table and roll toward me as I toss them into the triangle. I stare at the slightly shredded green baize and trace my finger along the stain rings and cigarette burns peppering the edges as I try to recall the rules of 8-ball pool. I flick a dead bug off one of the corners and set the cue ball on the table. “Ladies first.”

“Why thank you,” she drawls, lining up her cue and effectively eviscerating any chance I thought I had at bullshitting through this game by sinking all but two solids within her first turn.

“Seems like you’ve done this before,” I observe, clumsily resting my cue between my thumb and index finger before scratching immediately. I shift my weight awkwardly, meeting her eyes as she tries and fails to contain a giggle. “I may have overstated my skill,” I admit with a shrug, stepping away from the table.

“I gathered,” she chuckles, mercifully missing the only solid apart from the 8-ball on purpose and effectively lining up a shot for me.

“You don’t have to let me win as long as I get another drink to cope with the crushing loss,” I joke, barely making my striped ten into the pocket along with the cue ball.

“It’s not as fun if you don’t even have a chance,” she counters, setting up another shot for me. “So what do you do for a living? Nothing to do with pool, I hope.” I consider this for a moment, running over the possibilities. Being a receptionist for an old folks’ home doesn’t make for much interesting conversation, so the only person in the bar who’s ever heard about it is Tyler. Rolling the cue back and forth between my fingers, I settle on my usual.

“Fortunately, no. I’m a musician, actually. Just passing through,” I shrug. I can tell this was the right choice by the way her eyes light up at the words. 

“Oh, interesting. Are you on tour? I’ve always wanted to meet a famous person,” she inquires curiously.

“Yeah, something like that, although I’m not really famous. It’s a pretty niche thing, just travelling to where my fans are. What about you? Are you a professional pool player? Please say yes so I can feel better about getting absolutely whipped.” 

“Sorry, but no,” she apologizes, pausing for a moment to concentrate on her shot. Naturally, it lands directly in front of my next ball, clinking against the side gently before coming to a stop in line with the closest pocket. “I’m an accountant. Sort of boring to most people, but I enjoy it.” I glance at her up and down again, recognizing everything in her that I’m not. A twinge of jealousy pricks my chest but I shoo it away, trying to clear the haze settling over my brain enough to aim before taking my turn. My feeble concentration breaks as quickly as it came as a voice begins chastising me from behind. “You’re holding the cue wrong.” I turn and raise an eyebrow. “Move your finger here and don’t grip it so hard,” she instructs, placing her hand on mine and adjusting it. She looks over my shoulder as she lines it up for me, effectively stealing every last bit of air from my lungs and eliciting an awkward cough in the process. This time the heat spreading up my neck to my face can’t believably be blamed on the alcohol, so I clear my throat and put my head down in mock concentration. Somehow, despite my internal panic, I sink the ball.

“What do you know, having even the slightest level of technique is actually useful,” I say, smiling at her. 

“Pretty wild, I know,” she smirks. “By the way, I’m Clementine.” 

“I’m Honey,” I say, testing the name on my tongue for the first time and only partly thinking about how it would complement hers. We continue the game, Clementine lining up shots and me botching them, sometimes accidentally and sometimes on purpose in hopes of extending the game so I could have a bit longer to talk to her. In the end, as expected, I lose, although not as tremendously as I should’ve.

“That was fun,” she giggles, her tipsiness becoming more apparent as she accidentally bumps against the side of the table.

“Yeah, we should do it again sometime,” I say, meaning it genuinely for the first time in years. She looks at me funny for a moment before I realize my mistake. “If I end up back here again, of course.”

“For sure,” she replies, a hint of hesitation in her voice. I chew my lip, weighing the consequences of breaking one of my cardinal rules for someone I just met. I glance at Tyler; he’s playing some dumb game on his phone as a lone patron knocks back a glass of whiskey. No help there. I feel my palms start to sweat and stick my hands in my pockets to stem the torrent of nervousness rising in my chest.

“I don’t wanna sound weird, but could I get your number? I just feel like we really hit it off tonight and I’d like to keep in touch if you felt the same,” I blurt, looking at her with an embarrassing amount of eagerness and apparently no shame. She looks up at me for a moment before sighing and becoming suddenly enamored with her shoes.

“Look, I think you’re really great, but I can’t do the long distance thing. I’m sorry, I hope you can understand,” she replies, disappointment streaked across her face for the second time tonight. I open and close my mouth listlessly for a moment, running through a hundred different responses before sighing and resigning myself to the fate I deserve.

“Totally understand,” I say finally, nodding as all mirth of the night drains from my body and onto the grimy floor.

“Another drink for Miss Honey and you can close my tab,” she says to Tyler before handing him her card. He glances at me before slowly nodding, swiping her card and handing it back to her. Clementine and I stare at each other for a moment, caught in limbo. “‘Til we meet again,” she says with an awkward smile, skirting out the door before I can respond. I trudge to my stool, slumping into the seat and staring down at the deep scratches in the bartop, picking at the closest one.

“Are you alive?” Tyler asks, sliding over my drink. I chug it. “Got it.”

“I’m gonna go home.”

“I’ll get you an Uber.”

“I can walk.”

“You don’t even look like you can stand.”

“I don’t have money for an Uber.”

“I’ll pay for it, Hazel. Just sit tight.” So I sit tight. I watch the cars outside decrease in frequency and the last customer lumber out of the bar. No one else is coming, but I know Tyler will stay anyway to appease his uncle. I close my eyes and listen to some pop song drifting from the speakers, imagining I really am a musician finally resting after a long set. The rest of my band would be blowing up my phone asking where I am and telling me we're gonna be late getting on the road as it is but I wouldn't care because I'd be playing pool with a pretty girl. At the end of the night I'd ask for her number and she'd say no, but I'd convince her to give it to me anyway just in case I ever end up in this dead-end town again by some stroke of luck or divine intervention. Except I’m not a musician. And I have work in the morning. I see headlights outside and rise to my feet. The AC overhead shuts off. I pull on a jacket, knowing it’s probably raining outside for the fifth day in a row and get into the car. As the vents blow my hair back from my face and the streetlamps cast strange shadows across my face, I watch my hometown’s dingiest dive bar disappear for the final time.