Bent Words

Bent Words

March 13, 2005

It digressed into an incompleteness in my heart, as so many evening's out seem to do these days. Despite the fact that I had resolved to be happy and light and laugh for the duration, it was a Friday night that simply would not comply with my resolutions of contentment. My wild weekend goals became obstructed by a greater force - perhaps by what can be considered the greatest force that never fails to infiltrate my senses...

As though it were meant to be.

After the second or third Captain and Coke had sunk into my veins and after the clink of ice cubes became less obnoxious to my ears, I began to feel a heightened awareness of my surroundings coupled with a slight prick of longing in my chest. The darkened atmosphere of the bar began to swell and throb before my eyes, the bustling crowd of massing patrons seemed to turn lethargic and the only light about the room was centered upon the green felt of the pool tables, like a spotlight to those verdant patches, in the distance. This caught my breath without warning and I was wisked away to another time, within the same establishment.

I looked down upon the shirt I wore and noted that it was a little too big for my person, as it hung loose and long below my waist. I felt self-concious, noting the other female characters of the crowd clad in tight tops that complimented a rousing bit of cleavage as they leaned over the table with their cues incorrectly handled, and I waited, a bit maliciously, for them to miss their shots.

'If they concentrated more on the game, rather than how their asses looked in a bent over position, perhaps they would find the game of pool a bit more interesting,' I reasoned in my head.

I turned back to that gorgeous face across from me and let the slight of a frown form about my lips. I held my cue vertical within my hands and let the blunt of the stick support my stoic stance as he worked the table left and right and allowed the puffs of smoke to rise from his cigarette held in the corner of his mouth. He squinted at the striped ball upon the table or at the smoke bending before his eyes or both, when suddenly the blaring bass from the jukebox stopped his concentrated glare mid shot.

He straightened his body and his mouth contorted into a widened gap of childlike pleasure and surprise. The familiar 80s tune rang out upon his fancy as though he were just awarded the keys to that dream of a Porsche I had heard so much about and his feet began to dance and spring around the table. The words to the song flowed easily with his voice and I could not help but become entirely affected by his attitude replete with joy and adrenaline. The poke to my sides as he passed behind me to sink yet another shot, the elaborated reassuring forehead kiss to ease my qualms regarding that oversized shirt of his that I wore and the melting music which rang like laughter in our hearts was spotlighted in my memory.

I knew I had to leave. I knew I had to uphold my amiable character by quitting the bar early lest my reminiscent musings take full control. I bid my farewells and slid through the door, carefully plotting my steps through the newly fallen snow and sank into the driver's seat of my car. The engine whirred and quieted the fervent tambour in my chest as I languidly drove that short ride home. Yet, as soon as I found myself standing in my apartment, before I doffed my shoes or coat or put away my keys, I found myself sending that gorgeous man a text message from my phone.

Not more than a minute passed by and there came the jazzy rattling from my phone. I was sure that it would be one of the cohorts with which I had spent the previous few hours with, checking to be sure I made it home okay, but it was not. It was him; the one I had sent the message to, the one that had gripped my soul at the bar just moments before, the greatest force that never ceases to fully infiltrate my senses.

No longer was I merely reminiscing or remembering. I was not simply held in my small, solitairy world where only the idea of him is present. This was real time. This was really him and he truly wanted to talk to me. And I could not breathe - between the laughter and the tears, the love and the joy, the sorrow and the regret, the adoration and the absolution, my usual ceaseless babblying self and the quiet smoothness of his voice - the most magical moment held right there, in my hand and deep within my heart, as though it were meant to be.

It always was that way, you know; as though it were meant to be...

Written at 9:57 a.m.