Making Eye Contact

Making Eye Contact

Her fingers danced along the wine glass stem, as she wondered how her life got to this point.  Claire sat at the dimly lit bar waiting for a stranger, wishing she ordered a whisky sour instead but didn’t want to give her age away with that choice. Her bra strap dug in, a foot wanted out of the heels, and a sticky spot on the bar stole her attention and glistened of drinks gone by.  She prayed, he wasn’t a serial killer. 

She tapped other restless fingers on a black cloth headband resting on her thigh.  She should be wearing it instead but waits. This is how he is to identify her.  Claire’s fingers drummed on, matching her heartbeats. She’s not sure she wants “identifying.”  

Her identity and life took some unpleasant turns, death, divorce, death again, and now older. These days her loneliness took on such depth it seemed to crushed her breath.  It sat beside her like an intruder that she could not escape from.  Every time she thought about its presence, it stole a little more life, leaving a growing chasm.  She knew she needed some tools to help shovel this unwanted emotion curbside, like better hobbies or counseling but for tonight, a drink or two would have to suffice. Claire dared to gaze up to see if she spotted a man in a black tie, maybe he also had it resting somewhere safe.  In this bar, there should be little chance of multiple ties on the scene. No one. She was both relieved and pissed.  He was late or AWOL.  She focused her attention on the bottom of her wine glass, watching the liquid swirl at her command, sure it held some of life’s secrets.

Her mother’s words rang in her head, don’t make eye contact and you can avoid trouble.  It worked on geese and lunatics.  Claire hoped she could make a quick and accurate assessment.  His profile was engaging, if not a little extreme.  He came to the country seeking political asylum, as long as it wasn’t a typo for “mental” asylum she mused.  She figured lies were as long as their stories on dating sites.  Political asylum, at least, sounded more real than anything she read so far.  

He hated leaving his country but joined the 6.6 million refugee exodus. He marveled at the Syrian resilience, despite the continuation of war, life below the poverty level, flooding, and outbreaks of violence.  His prayers went up but the bombs still came down. Caleb finally had enough.

Now he sits in this bar waiting for a date.  He despises the place, online dating, and where he ended up.  Still, he managed to make an effort, but he was not going to wear the tie. He looked around but did not see anyone with a headband. Maybe she changed her mind.  

It looked like it was going to be an early night for him after all, he was reminded of what the Americans say, “A silver lining”. It would mean an early morning the next day, more hours on the job, more money to offer struggling relatives.  

Claire stole one more quick look for the tie and decided to head for the door after not finding the man.  She paid, tipped, and was ready to give up on more than just dating. The bartender finally swiped at the sticky smear on the bar, smiled, and said, 

“Someone is waiting for you, so don’t miss the flight.”

She muttered “what” and felt annoyed and confused. What did he mean?

He leaned in and declared, 

“ I think you know. Don’t be afraid to look for the beauty in the world.”

“Why are you telling me this? Who put you up to it?”

“Now, you know no one would ask me to dispense more than just gin and tonics. This comes from a “knowing” place; experience, life, time, my mama’s sensible advice, and a little something special. You can listen and really live or walk.  It’s your choice. I think you should take a chance, wear it proudly and take the flight.”

Claire was left with an unattractive open mouth, no drink but a clean bar.

“Fine.” she snapped “I’ll put the friggin’ headband on if you get me a whisky sour.

He nodded, made the beverage, and said, 

“Guess you don’t need to be carded with this.” As he passed her the drink.

She smiled, let out a great unabashed laugh, and felt better already.

Caleb had his hand on the door, pushed through it, and breathed in the cool, stale mix of  New York air.  Defeat, pavement, rotten hopes, fried food, and July smelling inner-city bodies filled his nostrils. The fried food, not so bad.  He could get used to the food in this country if you fried it. He headed to the corner and put a dollar in an old woman’s hand by the curb. 

“You forgot something, my dear.” She stated between some missing teeth.

“I don’t think so.  What do you mean?”  But she was already moving down the road.

Caleb stood still on the sidewalk wondering what she meant exactly.  Someone bumped him, someone stared, someone cursed, as he parted the crowd like a log in a rushing river.  Finally, for some reason, he decided he would go back to the bar and at least have one drink before he ended this night. 

A sound filled his ears and soul as he heard beautiful laughter when he returned to the little bar and knew he wanted a part of that.  

The bartender smiled him over and said in his smooth Jamaican accent, 

“Sit right here next to this pretty lady.  We’ve been waiting for you, captain.”

Caleb thought he saw the lady from the street walk out the back door but shook it off, as the entrancing woman in the headband next to him caught his attention and laughed again over something.  Claire looked at the man, noticed the tie bunched in his hand, glanced at the smiling bartender, and turned back to look into Caleb’s eyes.