I was alive
by Cheryl, posted on September 9th, 2011 in Red Writing Hood
I watched him from my perch on a stool at the end of the bar.
I sipped my beer and pretended I was looking at my phone or at the guys elbowing their way to the bar or the women in teeny skirts who leaned up against it.
But the truth was I couldn’t keep my gaze away from Ryan as he poured drinks and took money and refilled the bowls of pretzels. He chatted and smiled and one time he caught me staring and winked at me.
I didn’t use to be a fan of winking. That was before. Now suddenly it was incredibly sexy.
He was going to get off work in less than an hour. He was then going to take me to some other club where his friend’s band was playing. I’d pulled on my skinny jeans and a strapless top and arrived just as happy hour was turning into stay-til-closing.
I couldn’t stop thinking about him the past few days. Our first date, after the incredibly awkward beginning, had gone great. He wanted to know all about me, but was careful not to pry about my life with Justin or what had happened. He asked about my childhood, what I’d studied at school, did I like my job.
He didn’t kiss me that night, just hugged me before tucking me into a cab with instructions to text when I got home.
It was nice to once again have someone waiting to hear from me.
I drained the beer and before I could even put it back on the bar, Ryan set one down in front of me.
“Fifteen more minutes,” he said.
“Okay,” I said.
I watched him walk to the other end of the bar. His dark jeans slung low on his hips and his forest green Hennessey’s tee shirt molded to his shoulders. I thought about how it would feel to run my hands under that shirt, and then lower, how it would feel for him to hold me.
My face flushed and I swallowed the beer quickly. Maybe he’s the one who’s supposed to get me back into living my life. He’s fun and sweet and would be perfect for a casual thing. No emotional attachment. My heart was definitely not available. Nor would it ever be.
I finished my beer and Ryan appeared next to me.
“Hey,” he said. “You ready?”
He’d come out from behind the bar and was standing next to my stool, close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him. I stood up and then had to steady myself, putting my hand on his arm. I resisted the urge to squeeze his biceps. In my heels I was almost as tall as he was. We made our way through the crowded room and out into the street. The club was only two blocks away on Rush Street and he took my hand as we walked.
A whisper of a crescent moon appeared in a patch of sky between two buildings. Ryan stopped and pulled me into the shadow of the awning of one of them. He put his hands on either side of my face and he leaned in and kissed me. My response surprised us both. I kissed him back passionately, my hands clutching his arms like they were life rafts as he shoved his hands through my hair, pulling me even closer as the kiss deepened.
We finally came up for air. He rested his forehead against mine, his ragged breathing matching my own.
“We can be at my place in 10 minutes,” he said.
I smiled. I was alive.
This post is a work of fiction and was inspired by the prompt “Write a story where jeans figure prominently” for Write on Edge. You can read previous installments: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six and Part Seven.
Tags: bartenders are hot, fiction, red writing hood, will Cam do the deed
