I look in the direction he nodded, and for a moment, I don’t even register the man sitting in the booth. He’s alone, hunched over, smaller than I remember, reading a book, wearing thick-rimmed glasses. He’s traded hisShotGlasstee for a large, navy blue, button-down, but it’s him, it’s definitely Manny.
I saunter over, and in a reversal of the night before, I put my finger to the spine of his book, pressing down so it is no longer obscuring his view of the bar. “Miss me?”
Manny’s eyes slowly trace a line up to mine, as if moving any faster would be a crime against my sudden presence. Then his agape mouth slowly remembers how to curl into a pleased smile. “You came.”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?” I ask in a breathy tone, trying to emulate the domineering persona I constructed the night before, as I slide into the curved booth opposite him.
“I was worried you were just interested in free drinks,” he teases.
“Free drinks and poetry,” I fire back. “So, not working tonight?”
He pulls off his glasses and sets them on the table, his face shifting back into the roguish shape I remember. “I was going to, but I have a date.”
“I hope she’s interesting,” I tease, throwing his own words from last night back at him.
“Enthralling,” he says, his eyes lingering. Everything about this guy in front of me is every bit the challenging wall of man that’s been grabbing my attention. Yet, there’s something else, something in his posture, in his outfit, even in his attitude, that suddenly seems so different.
He blinks, breaking the drawn-out stare between us, as if to hold it any longer would cause his solid form to shatter to a million pieces. “So, how was your day?”
I roll my eyes, involuntarily, at the comment. “Sorry, it’s just, I hate that question. Don’t you ever get tired of boring platitudes?”
“I’m a bartender, all I have are platitudes,” he replies in a joking tone.
Somehow, forgetting his part-time occupation makes me blush in embarrassment, and this crack in my facade seems to be what finally gets him to relax, his shoulders loosening a little as we both fall into an easy chuckle. As if to punctuate the change in mood, Manny’s uncle stops by with two drinks.
“Highball for the man and a Manhattan for the lovely young lady.” He sets the drink down, and then his eyes trace a line from Manny towards me in a sentiment I can only describe as,Don’t mess this up, Manny, before leaving.
The moment he’s away, I take my chance to dive back in. “So is he why you’re such a smooth talker?”
He blushes a little before hiding behind his highball, surprising me with how much this confident, charismatic soul can squirm under my attention. “Someone had to teach me.”
“Were your parents busy?”
He bites his lower lip in an awkward act. “Kinda, they passed when I was very young. Car accident.”
I practically choke before even getting to touch my drink. “Sorry, jeez, I am so sorry. We talked about this yesterday, The Colossus, right!”
He puts up his hands in a placating act. “No, I don’t mean anything by it, just usually easier to nip that question in the bud sooner rather than later.”
I take a desperate drink of my Manhattan, savoring how it tastes almost as good as last night's, almost. I collect myself before trying to pivot to something a little more pleasant. “Was it nice? Having your uncle?”
“Yeah, I mean, he always says he’d do it again in a heartbeat, and we’d but heads plenty, but I’ve always been grateful.” Manny laces his fingers behind his head, his large biceps straining the fabric of his shirt as he leans back. “Made me the man I am today.”
“Yeah, I was wondering about that,” I say, eyeing his arms. “You don’t strike me as a fighter, but you look like one.”
“Oh God no,” he chuckles. “I have a hard time chasing away the rats in the stock room.”
I continue to eye his form, hoping it doesn’t come off as leering. “Then how’d you get so…” I gesture to all of him before hiding behind a sip of Manhattan.
He finally notices how I’m taking him in before slumping his neck a little in embarrassment. “Wrestling. My uncle’s idea. I was a big kid, a little chubby. Said it would toughen me up.”
“Did it?”
“Not even a little. I was ‘too soft,’ as my teammates would say. Plenty of muscle, no killer instinct. Coach always joked that if he could put his best wrestler's brain in my body, we might actually win a medal.”
There’s something so familiar about the self-deprecating way he describes his own disdain for combat sport, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s because I see myself in him. At first glance, he’s just what anyone would expect of the ideal macho man, big, muscular, confident to a fault, but under it all, he’s soft, and the world doesn’t have the patience to see it. It reminds me of my own struggles, all the times people put me in the box of monster or fetish object, all the times I’ve been reduced to my most surface-level attributes, gawked at, mocked, chased, and threatened, without anyone really taking the time to see me.
“You’re staring again.” His words hit me like a truck, the way his attention lingers on me.
