I once sat at this bar in Bushwick more out of convenience than any other reason. I went to drink there often, sure, but I prefered other watering holes. The real reason I decided to use this establishment was no other than the fact of my laziness.
I was not there long when a girl appeared. There was no helping myself, and, though this was not my usual approach, walked up to her and told her that she was beautiful. To myself at the moment I was asking what we would name our children. Call me a romantic. The children would be mixed kids of both African American (her) and Italian (me), and would need great names.
I remember walking the girl I was fawning over back to the train at the end of the night. We laughed a bit and I gave her my number. She was breath taking and probably received tons of numbers a night, but I figured I was special enough and returned back to the bar to drink some more.
I blacked out after going back to the bar and forget the whole rest of the evening prior, even meeting her. The person running the place was a friend of mine and I rarely paid for a drink so when I did drink too much it was like blinking my eyes and waking up in my bed with the clothes I was wearing from the night before. Not the healthiest approach to life, I agree, but I’m not here to appease you, either.
Months later, I was in the same bar and the same beautiful woman walked in, and I got right out of my seat and walked over to her. I asked for her name and told her that she was beautiful but she just looked at me and told me I had already been through this, rolled her eyes, and walked off. I was crushed naturally but continued my ritual of waking up with my clothes on, only this time I did remember meeting her and feeling like I lost a lottery ticket. It is the same feeling as slipping on the stairs, your palms are moist and sensitive, the air seems thicker and you think about your friends who have already married.
Then one night shortly after the incident where she stormed off the bar closed and in a very drunken state, the girl whom i already decided on our futures children’s names with (Jack if a boy Olive is a girl), came back with me over my place. Some other people were came that were drinking and doing drugs while her and I talked till the sun came up, and some guests left and some passed out on the couch, but not the the girl.
Her and I stayed up talking about how fucked our lives had been and what pieces of shit parents could be and how it was rough to be black in America, and as a woman, and being poor. I watched her smile glow on my fire escape and her muscular feminine figure swirl and boast as she spoke animated by emotion and felt nothing less than elated.
I hated the sun at these times because I felt as though I should not have wasted the day and perhaps maybe even had a job that I hate as it seemed the natural progression of life, so we both went back inside. When inside I kissed her standing in my living room.
I began to laugh instantly after touching her lips and pulled away.
I told her that I knew it would be that good.
That if I drank too much a million times and she walked into the bar I would fall for her again and again.
We are now in my room and taking shoes off and smoking some marijuana. We lay down and I am kissing her neck and her braided hair feels like rope while I kiss her lips which feel better than anything I have ever felt previously before.
I have felt many a lip.
I grabbed her breast and eventually my fingers are inside of her and she is making the most beautiful sounds because she is genuine and looks like an angel because of her eyes and how they envelope anything they focus on. I want to tell her about the children’s names that I have picked out but know from experience saying things like that will drive women away fast than if I acted like I were not interested at all. But she should have equal say about the kids, naturally.
I can barely sleep that night and rub her back for hours. I can’t stop. I don’t want her to go because I know nothing will happen until the next time we drink late into the evening. I love someone who is not right for me.
At least this time I remember.
by David Rutigliano