I heard her the second she walked into the bar … in fact, everyone heard her.
Her laugh was loud and deep and raspy, something you didn’t expect to hear come out of that petite body. It made you turn your head and smile when you saw who it came from, something free and raucous and alluring that also made you want to be in on the joke if not just next to it.
A whiskey laugh.
She let loose another one in response to something one of her girlfriends said and every head turned one more time except for the drunk taking a nap with his head in his arms.
She plopped her 5-foot-nothing body on the barstool next to mine, and tossed her curly dark red hair over her shoulder. I hopped my barstool over an inch or two to give her room and half-listened to a Tinder-date-gone-wrong story one of her girlfriends was telling with a lot of sarcasm but a little melancholy too.
Three beers in a little less than an hour – not to mention a round of tequila shots some guy on the other end of the bar eventually got enough nerve to buy for her and her friends – and her laugh punctuated the mix of bar conversation and songs from the bartender’s iPod. She bumped my shoulder once or twice as she moved on her barstool, followed by a bright “Sorry!” and my reply of “You’re fine” with a smile. Once, I could have sworn she winked at me through the mirror behind the bar, but I convinced myself I imagined it.
She bumped into me one more time and, as she turned to apologize, I couldn’t help myself.
“You know, if I’m in your way, I can move down a couple of stools … or to the outside bar.” I hoped the small smirk I had on my face let her know that I was kidding. Or maybe not.
“No worries, I’m easy.”
Without missing a beat, I stuck my hand out.
“Hi, I’m Jack.”
I knew one of two things would happen; she’d love it or I wouldn’t have to worry about her bumping into me the rest of the night.
There it was … that whiskey laugh again. This time, it rolled and rolled and rolled out of her. The longer it went, the more I liked it and the more people stared. Even her girlfriends stopped for a second, smiled at her, and went back to their conversations.
She faced me in her barstool and shook my hand. “I’m Meg.”
I couldn’t help but stare into her electric green eyes, my arm moving up and down until I watched her smile turn up at one corner. Realizing I was making a fool out of myself, I let go and made more water circles on the bar with my rocks glass.
“Buy you a drink?” I looked up to find the bartender, but saw him on the other side of the bar trying politely to get the passed-out drunk to settle up and leave.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that. Besides, I have a boyfriend.”
“Well, if I had to, I wouldn’t.” I gave her a full smile to soften the blow. “And I think I only asked if you wanted a drink, not if you wanted to get married. Presumptuous much?”
Her eyes widened and she barked out a single-second version of that whiskey laugh. “Sure, I’ll take a Jack on the rocks.”
I turned to wave the bartender down, but did a double-take as her words sank in. She gave me that one-corner-up smile again and waited. I raised my head an inch and smiled in respect, but didn’t take the bait.
This time when I looked for the bartender, he was right there with a knowing grin and that sixth sense good bartenders have. I ordered another round for me and the Jack on the rocks for her. When they arrived, we clinked glasses but I withheld my usual inappropriate toast.
We must have sat there and chatted for almost an hour, or at least until we each had a couple of empty glasses in front of us. The conversation ebbed and flowed, an easy game of sarcasm and one-upmanship. I noticed her girlfriends looking more and more at her, and I glanced at my watch.
“Got somewhere to go?” I couldn’t tell if she was a little upset or a little amused.
“Places to see, people to do, you know.” I signaled the bartender for my check.
“Must be hell being popular.” She pulled out her phone and punched in the access code. “Give me your number.”
“You break up with that boyfriend and I missed it somehow?”
“I think I only told you to give me your number, not asked if you wanted to date me. Presumptuous much?” She slid her phone across the bar and gave me that one-corner-up smile one last time.
I barked in laughter and tapped in the digits. I slid off the bar stool and grabbed my jacket, throwing it on.
She spun her phone on the counter and looked at me. “Maybe I should have tried a little harder?”
I gave her my version of the one-corner-up smile. “Maybe.”
I walked toward the front door, but was stopped by that whiskey laugh. I couldn’t help myself and turned for one last look. This time, I was sure I caught her eye in the mirror behind the bar and she definitely gave me a wink. I smiled, raised one hand in salute, and walked through the cold drizzle to my car.
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