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My grandpapa passed away just after I graduated. I feel like he held on to see that, but in reality, old age was waiting in the wings, and whilst we all fought against it, it was just his time. My grandmama took comfort in the fact he would be with my dad. She saw it as almost a happy thing, finally back with his son who had been taken too soon.
I don’t know if I believed in things like that really, but I was pleased the thought gave her some comfort and didn’t break her. That the good positive thoughts meant she had a way of finding peace and an ability to carry on.
We chat and eat. I tell her about my track event next month and about drinks last night. She tells me the street gossip and about her plans for the week. It’s normal and I leave with my holdall, a full stomach, and a smile on my face as I head back into the city for my shift.
Arriving at Luxe, I follow the same routine as I always do. I slide in behind the bar and eyeball the TV and I look pretty and smile nicely when required, but don’t get much done. Guests come and go but overall it’s quiet. Tuesdays are often a slow shift. I take my break, but still being full from lunch, I just sit out back and scroll on my phone as I watch the thirty minutes tick by before ambling back in to make my way through the rest of my shift.
As Robbie runs off, I notice that the previously empty end of my bar is now occupied by the very person I had hoped I would see again.
“Well, here she is,” says the red-haired movie star with a grin as I make my way over. “I was hoping to get another of your delicious cocktails.”
She sits delicately perched with her elbow on the polished bar counter and her chin perfectly rested against the palm of her hand. She isn’t dressed up tonight, instead, she’s in more comfortable clothes—a tee and some slacks—but even from over the bar I can see they cling to her figure in a way that makes them seem like a polished outfit in themselves.
“Yes, ma’am. The same? Or would you like to try something different?” I ask with a professional edge to my voice trying to cover any hint of unprofessionalism I may feel.
“Surprise me.” She smiles and her voice rings with a light tinkle that makes my skin tingle. I take my time preparing her a piña colada. It is the best virgin cocktail, in my opinion, because it still has those bursts of flavors that you can enjoy without the burn of alcohol.
I place it lightly on the black and gold coaster and move away to give her space. I find her difficult to read as to whether she wants to interact with me or not. Everything about her invites me in, but her quick exit last week makes me cautious that she’s probably only waiting for someone else or has other plans.
“This is absolutely delicious. Makes me glad I gave up the booze for the first time in forever.” She doesn’t raise her voice to combat the distance between us, which means I have to move back, closer to her to reply.
“It is my favorite too when I’m on a no-alcohol regime- which is often.”
She raises her eyebrows questioningly. “You have no alcohol regimes but you work behind a bar?”
I laugh. “Yes. I actually rarely drink anyway; it messes with my fitness plans, but there are months when I have to go zero.”
She nods. “You are a PT?”
“God no.” I laugh then remember where I am. “I mean, it's not my thing. I just like to run, that’s all. It’s all for me, I don’t try and motivate others… far too much pressure.” I laugh again. She smiles softly, her peachy lips curling a little at the sides, but her eyes are like chasms, endless pools that give nothing away.
“Aren’t you going to ask what I do?” she says, leaning back in her chair whilst her fingers toy with her straw. Slowly stirring her drink. I stumble a little bit. I mean, I know exactly what she does, who she is. Everyone does. Should I pretend…
“I’m just fucking with you. Everyone knows who I am. I used to think that was a blessing. Now I am not so sure if it isn’t some kind of curse …” her voice trails off and I don’t say anything. “Anyway.” She smiles, it is dazzling, and gives me a light but fake laugh. “I am here for a few weeks. I have some promos. Some evenings I have to go out and play nice, but others… I am at a loose end, so I’m sure I will be propping up your bar. In a totally respectful, southern kinda way.”
It is my turn to smile at her. I fix her gaze with my own. “I would be honored to have you here propping.”
The next night, I look for her again and feel the tingle straight between my thighs as I catch sight of her perched on her usual seat.
She looks beautiful in a simple black dress that would do nothing for most people, but on her… it looks a million dollars. It fits her to perfection and makes me instantly want to buy one even though I know for a fact it isn’t the dress that makes her look so good; it was the other way around. Her body seems made to make clothes look good, every smooth curve of her seems perfectly drawn, and I bet designers adore her. Her proportions seem perfect to me. She is delicate and graceful, my eyes scan every part of her, wishing I could undress her. The way her breasts and ass are curved and full oozes femininity. Her wrists and hands are elegant and her fingers long, and I imagine them playing a piano. Or playing a woman’s body; the thought of it assaults me suddenly, and of course, I’ll volunteer mine. Her fingernails are neatly manicured and painted red. I can’t take my eyes off her.
Of all those things, it isn’t her body or her hands that catch my attention the most, it’s her eyes. I have never seen eyes so clear and green, and the soft red sheen of her hair only brings out their sparkle more, lighting up her whole face. I can see why she is such a famous sex symbol, why men are so drawn to her, but the softness, the kindness in her smile, is what makes me like her too. She is the kind of woman that men want to fuck and women want to be friends with.
Unless you are me and you and want both.
I can tell by the slight smudges of her makeup and the stray curls that fall casually and sensually from her updo that she is not on her way out but rather returned from wherever she had been and as if she can read my thoughts …
“I just got back from a full afternoon of promos. You know, I don’t think they care about the movie at all. They just keep me there to see if I will make a mistake and say something that will look good splashed across a front page,” she says with a soft sigh as I approach and I feel bad for her.
“Drink?” I ask gently, and she snaps out of her thoughts.
“Oh hon, I am sorry. I hate to be one of those people … like, oh my life is so bad because I am famous. I’m lucky, I know I am lucky. Just some days, I feel the vultures circling. You know?”
I nod as I start to fix her a drink. I don’t know, of course, but I can take a guess at how it would feel.
“I mean, I don’t know anything different. This has been my life for as long as I can remember. But I do wonder what it would be like to just go to a grocery store without being recognized, or re-wear the same clothes without being photographed, maybe eat a burger in public … take a drink … go on a date…”
I finish her drink and place it in front of her, and she meets my eye as she continues, “… sleep with a stranger …” Her eyes sparkle with mischief, and I feel myself take a deep inhale.
