He Smelled of Oak Leaves

He smelled of oak leaves
The man beside me at the wide, shiny bar
Perched on a leatherette barstool, one leg
Resting on the floor and the other
Poking out in a pointed V.
There was something vaguely familiar about the
Way he smelled, but somehow,
I could not place it.
And there was another scent about him,
Something sharp and clean and
Chemical.
I could see his teeth as he talked about himself,
His circle, his opinions, his past.
They were the most perfect teeth I had ever seen.
Whiter than polished ivory, straighter than
The borders on a map of Wyoming.
As the row of perfect porcelain kernels
Moved up and down, taunting me a bit
From his raspberry-pink mouth,
I caught a scent of spearmint from his breath,
And it mingled with the muskier fragrance
That hung to his baby-blue mohair sweater and his
Smooth, slender wrists.

He talked and talked, pausing only after a tart,
Targeted question, his eyes boring into mine for a second,
Then darting away.
He heard my answers, I could tell, but wasn't really listening.
He scanned the room, the bustling room, full of people
As carefully arranged and presented as him.

I shifted an inch or so on my barstool, across from this man,
Rather than next to him, I felt, and my mind wandered too,
To another barstool, to another wide, wooden bar, in a city far from here.
An old city by the Pacific Ocean, hot and steamy and tropical,
Where there was a bar on a square, in the oldest part of town.
In the middle of the square there was an ancient tree,
Its wide branches hung heavily with leaves and achingly
Arching toward the ground.
People dashed around the square and into the cafes and shops and bars
Like this one, this bar,
To get out of a violent midday rainstorm,
Or just to pause and enjoy an hour, or two, away from the world.

Inside there were high walls lined with mirrors, and shelves
Stacked with bottles of rums and whiskies and other liquors,
From makers I'd never heard of before, from small, distant countries,
And lush, remote islands where leathery men still knew the secrets
Of extracting fire and sweetness from cane and grain and
Giving it subtle fragrances over time.

There was a man behind this bar, and he was leathery too,
His skin deeply bronze and wrinkled.
He smelled of tobacco leaves,
And a salty hint of sweat, and his eyes were dark and glinty,
As he looked into mine, and took my order.
He reached up to a high shelf, and selected a bottle,
And used his strong, rough hands to mix my drink,
As the rain slashed against the stones of the street
And the tall windows of the bar.
As he squeezed and shook and mixed, scents of
Lime and sugar and white-hot rum came to me,
And mingled with the salt of his sweat, and the
Odor of his tobacco, and the fresh breeze and the
Cleansing rain, and awakened me.

He placed the finished drink in front of me, and looked into my eyes,
Smiling to reveal slightly crooked, slightly yellow teeth, but it was
A smile so kind, welcoming me to sit for an hour or more,
To drink in the afternoon and let it fuel me with its power.
I thanked him with awkwardly spoken words but with a returned smile
That was as honest and pure as his own, and raised the glass to my mouth.
I tasted the strong, fine, sour, sweet and clear flavors that I had smelled
Just moments before, and I knew.

As I remembered this bar, in this faraway old city, in a violent midday rain,
By the ocean, I knew.
Sitting in a wide, shiny room, across from a man with perfect,
Impossibly white teeth, who smelled of breath spray and
Hand sanitizer
And cologne,
Who talked about himself and asked questions that
He already knew the answers to while he
Looked around the room at other people,
I knew.