At Least Until Tomorrow
He looks away
from his book up to the Mariners
on the screen as they run
around the bases
for two men at the end
of the bar who watch
because they’re not
sure where else to look.
A group of three women
has a table in the corner,
and one of them puts a few
bills in the jukebox and walks over
to where he sits, orders
a shot of whisky as “Whole Lotta Rosie”
begins to drown out the baseball.
The guitars scream and the drums
pound and Bon Scott howls
the good howl and she speaks,
“So what are you reading?”
He shows her the book,
Atonement. “Nice.”
She glances back
to her friends in the corner, gets
her shot from the bartender, drains it,
He sips his beer,
folds the corner of the page.
“You here alone?” she asks.
He sips again,
“Yeah, it’s one of my favorite
places,” and then he gets historical,
“I started coming here often last year
when I had nowhere
else to go.” And then something occurs
to him. “Or maybe I just didn’t know
where else to go.”
“Is that still the case? Don’t know
where else to go?”
“Yeah, I guess so if I’m being
honest, and anyway I like
this place in the daytime.”
He leans back, looks around
the room to take it all
in. She does the same.
“So do I.”
She runs her left hand up
over her ear settling her hair
behind it, tilting her head
away to her friends and then back
in a gesture that begs the question.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“Rob.”
“Rita.”
They drink then, beers and more shots
and she puts more money
in the box for more AC/DC,
some Stones,
some Traffic.
She has good taste.
A few drinks later they settle up, her friends
long gone, and drive back
to his place
where on the sofa
in the muted glow of Moulin Rouge
she allows him to touch
her naked body,
to trace its entirety,
to memorize it,
even though he does not know
her last name,
nor she his,
and there are goose
bumps, a tattoo
of a pin-up girl on her back
right shoulder, and measured
breaths, sixty-four in a minute
for minutes on end,
and later still
in the still
as the evening wanes
there are more drinks
and truly, finally,
definitely, all those words,
no where
else to go.
©2022 Dave O’Leary All rights reserved.
Dave O’Leary is a writer and musician living in Seattle. He has had three books published as well as poems and short stories featured in numerous online literary journals.
Books:
I Hear Your Music Playing Night and Day
(Poetry and short prose, Cajun Mutt Press, May 2021)
The Music Book
(Novel, Infinitum, November 2017, Booktrope 2015)
Horse Bite
(Novel, Infinitum, October 2011)