Copyright December 2012
Author's Note: All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.
*
The café had a low ceiling and a small cinema near the front. The bar was on the left as you walked in on which stood a variety of imported beer bottles. Two men with beards sat at a table near the bar, cross-legged, smoking. Soft jazz music played while two young girls, both with long black hair and tanned bodies, danced topless in the corner. They caressed each other's backs, and one of the girls drew lines on the other's chest with her finger. A man and a young woman were about to play pool in the back room where a girl with a nose ring sat reading Nietzsche.
The man put coins in the slot on the side of the table then slammed the slot in and out. Balls dropped at the end of the table. The man racked. The young woman broke.
"Still open?" The girl asked.
"Yes it is," the man said, eyes quickly scanning the green felt.
"One ball in the corner," the man said.
"Nice shot."
The man chalked his cue. The girl, very seriously, examined the table and planned her next shot.
"Six in the side," she said. She missed.
The man went on to sink four striped balls in a row, coming close to accidentally sinking the eight.
"My shot?" The girl asked.
"Yes it is."
The girl bent over the table and took aim. She wore tight black jeans, a white t-shirt, and clunky Doc Martin's, and her hair was in a pony tail beneath a Chicago White Sox baseball cap, pulled low over her eyes. You could really only see her perfectly painted deep red lips, beneath the shadow of her hat in the dim café lighting.
She looked beautiful to the man beneath the brass table light, her slim body stretched across the table, hips moving slightly, in rhythm to soft trumpets and saxophones.
"What are you going to do now?" The man asked, smiling.
She had sunk the four but had left the white ball on the edge of the right corner pocket. She shot, and hid the white ball between two stripes at the far end of the table.
"You dirty wench," said the man.
The girl smiled.
"What are
you
going to do now?" She said, pulling her hat down lower over her eyes.
The man had only the black left to sink but it was hidden between the rail and a solid.
"Just a shot."
He bent behind the white, banked, missed the eight, and sank the white ball.
"Nice try," said the girl, grinning.
"Whatever," grumbled the man, smiling. "Would you like a drink?"
"Please. A Smithwicks if they have it. If not, a Caesar. "I'll rack."
The man went to the bar, ordered two pints of Smithwicks, and then came back to the table. The girl had broken and sunk two solids.
"My shot?" Asked the man, handing the girl her large beer glass.
"Thank you. Yes it is."
The man took a sip of beer, lit a cigarette, placed it in the ashtray and then cleared the table.
"Your supposed to let me win," the girl said, pouting, standing innocently with the pool cue between her legs.
"I don't let girls win. Sorry."
The girl's expression became dead serious. "You're dead. Rack them."
They played three more games, with the girl winning two, drank a few more beer and then walked out into the warm night feeling the freedom and carelessness you would only feel in your twenties. No pressures, no commitments, just the silliness of being drunk on a Tuesday night, and the limitless opportunities that life presented before you. The sidewalk was empty. A few cars were parked on the street.
