Oh, he watches her.
She’s decked out in magazine glam, blending subtle taste and mega glitz in one smooth little package—a present to be opened. He can tell she knows it. Drink in hand, he walks to her and above the blazing of guitar strings and drum skins, the pounding of the music in his ears and chest, he screams his latest pick up, “You’re easy luck, aren’t you?”
She quirks a brow then ruefully nods and, never slowing her stride, glides right on by.
Still, he watches her.
The place hypes up and winds its weary way past the witching hour, straight into last call and 3 a.m. The drinks have been many but watery, the buzz shifted from numb to harassing, the wallet lightened and the angst pressing in to not go home alone … again. Easy Luck sits in the corner, condensation on the glass of water in front of her gives the illusion of badly cut diamonds weeping.
He has to try again, maybe she didn’t understand. It might be dramatic to finish his drink before he tries, but that’s just a trick—deceptive. Instead, he carries it with him across the club. Standing in front of her, he says, “Did you hear me?”
“What does it matter if I did or didn’t?” She ignores the glass of water even though it would be a great opportunity to look away and lift it to her mouth. She stares him dead in the eyes.
In a movie, this is where the guy would clear his throat, maybe run a hand through his hair before finding his voice enough to start: “I said—”
She cuts him off. “The last guy I was with said ‘high maintenance.’ The one before that said ‘psycho.’ The first one said ‘baby.’ You all say something, now don’t you? And you have to make damn sure it’s heard, don’t you? I’ve only got one word for you on this night, in this place.”
But she doesn’t give it to him. She stands up in her lily perfumed fancy, steps from behind the table and without breaking her gaze from the exit, slides right on by. He’s forced to fill in the blank. He does so with a word that starts with a B.
It’s not her word, but he doesn’t care about that. Now does he?