InShort Stories

The Woman At The Bar


The door swings open and a gust of frigid air comes in. Everyone stiffens. The place is dim as they play, “Magnets,” by Disclosure and Lorde. Her compact mirror is laying on the table next to a drink with six olives, making it a very dirty martini. Floor to ceiling windows allows for a panoramic view of the city, with an intimate view of The Empire State building. It’s magnificent to see at this altitude. An illuminated landmark that can take one’s breath away. The waitresses are younger, more vibrant, sexy and are wearing Maria Pinto. The compact mirror is open again for several long seconds, she then accommodates it next to the martini. A mid-century silver leather sectional sofa is empty, with a view to the Hudson River. With her purse under her arm, the drink on the left hand and the compact mirror on the right, she dances her way to the more amorous side, as they now play, “You Know I’m No Good,” by Amy Winehouse. A sip of the martini and arranging the compact mirror again on the table.

“Are you expecting anyone else,” asks the waitress. “No,” she responds eyes fixed on a sliver of Central Park. The waitress turns around miffed. She and some other waitresses walk away in tandem, notepads in hand. They speak in a whisper as the compact mirror is open again with a visible Chinese character in display. “It stands for fire,” says one waitress. “I have that as one of my tattoos on my back.” Once more, the door swings open and the uninvited arctic air comes in like a whirlpool. “Shit,” she says, rubbing her arms around her shoulders. She picks up the mirror, dabs her lips, and sets it back down. Another drink, another song, another hour.

“Are you ready to order,” the waitress asks.

“I’ll call you when I’m ready,” not focusing on the waitress, but at the compact mirror’s design.

There’s a ringing of a cell phone, she blinks several times. Scouring through her purse, the waitress chimes in, “It’s on the table,” She looks up at the waitress for the first time, scrutinizing her, as she grabs the phone and glances off.

P.s. The Golden Bracelet.


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