Honey-warm wood and a big, round curve
Thick with sounds and scents and faces.
Theirs were supple, narrow, their eyes
Scanning, moving, as huntresses,
Their taut, amber necks
Rippling as they waved
Feathery manes back and forth
In an oft-practiced, oft-repeated ritual
That might never end.
Sweat bubbled up on his pale forehead
And seeped into the concealed
Crevices of his tightly buttoned vest
As he leaned over to speak to them,
His flirtations a bit weary, a bit practiced,
And his impatience overcoming his lust.
They couldn't make up their minds, or
Perhaps they were bored, and wanted
To be dazzled.
As he sloshed ruby richness
Into warm crystalline jugs
And jangled ice cubes and spicy whiskey
In silvered tubes, he made his
Game attempt to entice them,
With promises of peppermint,
Liquid fire, blood of oranges,
Snowflake kisses on top.
Finally, their eyes sparkled at his
Exhausted words and they, clapping
And cheering in a hollow chorus,
Saluted his game Friday night effort,
The Pepper-Pink-A-Tini
With a Flaming Twist.
Raising their womb-shaped glasses
For a celebratory clink, they
Sloshed and splattered
And smiled, at last.
But a handful of feet away, there
Was another woman, ready to
Shake the dusty shackles of
Work or life or boredom or regret,
To grasp a drink, in the crowded bar.
She was also wasp-hipped and swan-necked,
But not the sort who begged for notice,
Her silver hair cut in short, neat waves,
And her long legs encased in black satin.
The pale and sweaty man knew her well,
And knew that his chore would be
To please her, like the others, but
This one was far less indecisive.
Irene was a woman of purpose,
Who walked in knowing exactly
What she wanted
And the way she wanted it,
And this she could demand,
And unlike the others,
This she would have.
Not to remove the clammy broadcloth
Shirt of the young bartender, although
She would do that with swift mastery,
But a glass of neat, well-made Scotch,
A salad of full leaves kissed with oil
And the juice of a fresh lemon,
Her favorite cut of steak cooked medium rare,
No slathering of butter,
And three tender sprigs of asparagus.
Exactly that and nothing more.
Irene had dined on many salads and steaks
Before, you see, and had downed many whiskies,
So she had become decisive and strong,
Cutting through the jazzy banter
And slicing into the thick of things.
She could not help but offer just one
Disdainful glance down the bar,
At the chattering young girls
Getting filthy drunk on candy-coated rotgut
And tipping over to show off for
The leering, paunchy businessmen nearby.
Irene may have once been a California surfer,
Or a Vegas showgirl, or Hollywood agent,
Or even a Valley housewife.
Nobody knew, nor dared to ask,
But all admired her poise, her power,
Her practicality, her purpose,
All wrapped in a timeless glamour
Undiminished by a drizzle of steak juice
On her ivory chin.
She drank and ate in relative silence,
Her air retaining just a tad of hauteur,
For her life experience had made her
Somewhat superior in attitude.
When she was done, as the duo
Of martini-soaked ladies turned into
A seamy quartet of raw opportunism,
She quietly paid her bill in cash,
And stepped gamely off the barstool
To depart, her gaze flat, unrevealing.
And then, a man spoke to Irene,
A man unknown to her, though
He had been watching and listening
To her since her arrival.
His words were brief: "Good night, Irene."
Startled, she turned suddenly, and froze,
Her heart flipping just once, and a half
Turn more, at the mention of an old song,
One long forgotten by most, and
Unknown by the dewy revelers around
Her, but one that reminded her of long ago,
When she drank life the way she wanted it,
Straight up, unadorned, just right,
Just enough
And nothing more.
She smiled at the man, and winked,
And strode on into the night,
Glowing with a fire rekindled within.
She had never changed.
Thick with sounds and scents and faces.
Theirs were supple, narrow, their eyes
Scanning, moving, as huntresses,
Their taut, amber necks
Rippling as they waved
Feathery manes back and forth
In an oft-practiced, oft-repeated ritual
That might never end.
Sweat bubbled up on his pale forehead
And seeped into the concealed
Crevices of his tightly buttoned vest
As he leaned over to speak to them,
His flirtations a bit weary, a bit practiced,
And his impatience overcoming his lust.
They couldn't make up their minds, or
Perhaps they were bored, and wanted
To be dazzled.
As he sloshed ruby richness
Into warm crystalline jugs
And jangled ice cubes and spicy whiskey
In silvered tubes, he made his
Game attempt to entice them,
With promises of peppermint,
Liquid fire, blood of oranges,
Snowflake kisses on top.
Finally, their eyes sparkled at his
Exhausted words and they, clapping
And cheering in a hollow chorus,
Saluted his game Friday night effort,
The Pepper-Pink-A-Tini
With a Flaming Twist.
Raising their womb-shaped glasses
For a celebratory clink, they
Sloshed and splattered
And smiled, at last.
But a handful of feet away, there
Was another woman, ready to
Shake the dusty shackles of
Work or life or boredom or regret,
To grasp a drink, in the crowded bar.
She was also wasp-hipped and swan-necked,
But not the sort who begged for notice,
Her silver hair cut in short, neat waves,
And her long legs encased in black satin.
The pale and sweaty man knew her well,
And knew that his chore would be
To please her, like the others, but
This one was far less indecisive.
Irene was a woman of purpose,
Who walked in knowing exactly
What she wanted
And the way she wanted it,
And this she could demand,
And unlike the others,
This she would have.
Not to remove the clammy broadcloth
Shirt of the young bartender, although
She would do that with swift mastery,
But a glass of neat, well-made Scotch,
A salad of full leaves kissed with oil
And the juice of a fresh lemon,
Her favorite cut of steak cooked medium rare,
No slathering of butter,
And three tender sprigs of asparagus.
Exactly that and nothing more.
Irene had dined on many salads and steaks
Before, you see, and had downed many whiskies,
So she had become decisive and strong,
Cutting through the jazzy banter
And slicing into the thick of things.
She could not help but offer just one
Disdainful glance down the bar,
At the chattering young girls
Getting filthy drunk on candy-coated rotgut
And tipping over to show off for
The leering, paunchy businessmen nearby.
Irene may have once been a California surfer,
Or a Vegas showgirl, or Hollywood agent,
Or even a Valley housewife.
Nobody knew, nor dared to ask,
But all admired her poise, her power,
Her practicality, her purpose,
All wrapped in a timeless glamour
Undiminished by a drizzle of steak juice
On her ivory chin.
She drank and ate in relative silence,
Her air retaining just a tad of hauteur,
For her life experience had made her
Somewhat superior in attitude.
When she was done, as the duo
Of martini-soaked ladies turned into
A seamy quartet of raw opportunism,
She quietly paid her bill in cash,
And stepped gamely off the barstool
To depart, her gaze flat, unrevealing.
And then, a man spoke to Irene,
A man unknown to her, though
He had been watching and listening
To her since her arrival.
His words were brief: "Good night, Irene."
Startled, she turned suddenly, and froze,
Her heart flipping just once, and a half
Turn more, at the mention of an old song,
One long forgotten by most, and
Unknown by the dewy revelers around
Her, but one that reminded her of long ago,
When she drank life the way she wanted it,
Straight up, unadorned, just right,
Just enough
And nothing more.
She smiled at the man, and winked,
And strode on into the night,
Glowing with a fire rekindled within.
She had never changed.
