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Two Martinis
The packed upscale bar was waiting room for the hotel’s four-star restaurant. Entering the bar from the hotel lobby, I spotted three empty stools just inside the door. Taking the middle stool, I placed my attaché on the stool to my right. Kyle, the bartender and I got familiar. I placed my order. Kyle poured a generous double bourbon over cracked ice. I sipped. The bourbon wasn’t giving the ice much ground.
It was a class bar. Soft Jazz background. Conversations you heard but couldn’t understand. Some weren’t there for the four-star. They were there to tie one on. But they’d remain classy. There was no thin cigarette smoke haze. I missed that.
A double Irish walked in. Flaming red hair, freckles, and a body. Hard not to notice as she melted onto the stool to my left. Her very-L LBD, painted on, was slit to her hip. Her painter almost missed a few spots.
Kyle was flawless. LBD was a regular. Kyle placed a Texas-sized martini glass in front of LBD. He mixed a mostly-vodka martini. Two lemon twists.
A hand shot into the air at the far end of the mahogany.
“I’ll be right back to finish,” promised Kyle.
“No hurry,” I assured.
LBD played Cheshire cat and cooed. “Come here often?”
“Is that,” I asked, “a come-on?”
“No. Rather poor, if it was, don’t you think? I’m Genevieve.” Genevieve offered her hand, knuckles-up.
Not a Maurice Chevalier type, I gently shook her hand and said nothing.
“So?” she insisted.
“So what?” Strong silent type. I encouraged my bourbon and ice to play nice, spinning the glass on the mahogany.
Genevieve changed course. “What brings you here?”
“My partner and I just wrapped a presentation. We nailed it. We’re going to celebrate.”
“Your partner?”
“Casey. Should be here soon.”
A Hollywood good-looking gent approached the empty stool. Genevieve was intrigued and paid attention. On cue, Kyle returned and placed another Texas-size martini glass on the mahogany in front of the empty stool. Hollywood smiled, nodded, and walked away. Definitely a class place.
Kyle got to work on a Beefeater’s martini afraid of vermouth.
Into the bar walked a woman who made every eye in the place strain in their sockets. Men and women. The lady had great legs but lacked nothing. I lifted my attaché and Legs settled onto the stool. Before Legs’ stool got comfortable, Genevieve leaned in, gauging the competition. I raised my eyebrows at Genevieve. Kyle splashed two swords, two olives apiece, into Legs’ martini, and withdrew. Class joint. Excellent barman.
Unnecessarily, I told Genevieve, “This is my partner, Casey, and…”
Genevieve interrupted with a sarcastic giggle, “Oho! I’ll bet your missus keeps a short chain on you, considering your partner, Casey, here!”
Casey and I hoisted and chatted with our drinks. Casey grinned at her martini, then at me. My bourbon was getting used to ice. I returned Casey’s smile. Turning to Genevieve again, I quietly finished what she’d interrupted.
“Casey is my wife.”
© spwilcenski 2021
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spwilcenwrites 10/31/2021
Ramblings 