Curiosity

By Lynnette Horn

Sarah stepped out of the midday sun into the dark tavern. It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the room, illumined only by a few votives spread along the bar and at each table. A muted ballgame, playing on a black-and-white thirteen-incher bolted to the wall behind the bar, cast ephemeral images onto a mirror across the room. Everything else was darkness--dark floors, dark tables, dark paneling. The clientele blended into the décor like mysterious, sinister shadows.

Sarah suddenly felt out of place.  The smell of spilt drinks and stale cigarettes assaulted her nostrils.  She fought the impulse to run back out into the daylight. Swallowing hard, she walked up to the bar and took a seat.

"What'll it be?"

"Well, I-I don't know  . . .I'm not much of a drin . . ."

"Lady, this ain't no bus stop."  The bartender stopped wiping the counter and stared at her.

"Scotch and water, then." Isn't that what they always order in the movies? At least the "chick flicks," the kind Joe hates.  Joe.  He'd be lying on the sofa watching the game right now, oblivious to her shopping detour.  Her eyes darted to the screen, then quickly away.

Good old Joe, faithful and dull.  She dropped her head, ashamed of her cruelty.  Joe was a good man; she'd never deny it. He'd been her first and only love.  But over the years, their marriage had settled into bland familiarity.  She'd hoped once the children had grown romance would return. It didn't. The gulf between them had only grown wider, seemingly impossible to bridge.  She secretly craved excitement and daydreamed of what might have been.

The barkeep slid a drink in front of her.  "That'll be three bucks."

"I'll take care of that," a velvet voice purred over her shoulder. The man's fingers brushed against her hand as he dropped a ten spot on the bar.

She jumped at his touch.  "Thanks, but no thanks.  I can pay for my own."

"Whatever the lady wants.  Maybe another time."  He backed off to a seat farther down the bar.

Coins tinkled.  A jukebox lit up in the far corner.  Sarah sipped her drink and let the wail of a sax coil around her.  The music pummeled her, kneading away jitters and thoughts of Joe.  It gave her courage to take control.  She spun her stool around and casually perused the room.  Piercing through the barroom smoke, appraising eyes met hers.  Her body quivered.  Yes, this was why she came.  She had to find out.

Chattering ice brought the bartender. "Are you ready for another?"

"Yes . . . I think I am."  Sarah nodded toward the man with the velvety voice. "And another for him . . . whatever he's drinking."

The man smiled and came over.  She raised her eyebrow and a slow, seductive smile spread across her lips.  Their eyes locked as she raised her glass in a toast:

"Here's to  . . . curiosity."