“What deal?”
I gesture to him. “You look like that, you act like this, and you’re just some bartender?”
“I could ask the same about you.”
I withdraw at the reversal, feeling foolish for how easily I keep getting blindsided by his little verbal traps, and the moment he catches my resignation, he backs off. “Sorry, I’ve been told I can be too mouthy. Uh, what’s my deal? Well, I think I told you I mostly work here part-time. In exchange, my uncle lets me crash in the guest room, close to the parks and stuff. But honestly, this has always been more of a favor to him. Believe it or not, I’m a writer.”
“No!”
“Yeah.” He practically blushes. “I mean, it’s under a pen name, so you’ll never know, but I like writing. And I like the bar, great for new material for my books.”
“Am I gonna be in one of these books?”
An innocent grin tugs at his cheeks. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“How interesting I think you are.”
This time, when I pout, I cross my arms to accentuate my breasts. “And what, am I not interesting enough?”
His smile remains, but something in his eyes dims. “No, it's not like that. Some things don’t go in my stories. Some things, I like to keep for myself.”
His words, the way he makes the idea of me sound so possessive, make me melt right there on the barstool. Of course, I never stood a chance with this guy.
“Do you like poetry?” Another complete surprise by this barrel-chested enigma.
“A little cliché, don’t you think?” He keeps his inquisitive stare, not accepting my slight as an answer. “Yeah, why do you ask?”
“Wait here.” He runs further down the bar and retrieves something. At first, I’m worried he’s going to make me read some god awful poem he wrote, a thought that immediately makes me have panic attack flashbacks of Chad and a dozen other exes. But then I recognize the book in his hand. “I don’t know, maybe you’ve read it, Sylvia Plath?”
He hands me an original copy ofThe Colossus and Other Poems. My breath hitches. Not just poetry, but a specific, brilliant, wounded poet. It shows a depth and sensitivity that both terrify and thrill me. I shake my head in disbelief. A watery laugh escapes me. I clutch the book like it's a precious treasure, admiring the original cover and appreciating the well-worn spine.
“You know I met her once,” I say as I admire the artifact.
“You did? Really?!” The words tumble out of him like he’s a child learning I met the real Santa Claus.
“No,” I reply, bursting his bubble—a small, petty way of proving I have edges, too. I can’t help but smirk as the delight curdles on his face, though he somehow manages to keep smiling. “But I wanted to. God knows I wanted to. I even planned a trip to the UK and everything, but it never worked out… Favorite poem?”
“The Colossus, because of my dad.”
I give an appreciative nod before replying, “Yeah, everyone says that. I prefer Mushrooms.”
“It does have powerful imagery, good themes on collective action.”
My hands find the poem in between the wrinkled pages. “I just like how it's a warning about the danger of dismissing anything as insignificant.”
I don’t think I mean for my voice to hitch the way it does when I say insignificant, but when I close the book and hand it back, I catch a concerned shimmer in Manny’s eyes. “I pity anyone who’d consider you insignificant.”
We linger, my eyes staring into his, my mind racing, wondering what he sees as he stares back, if this is an act, or if he really means any of it. My hand slowly reaches for his across the bar top, just slow enough to be interrupted by the buzzing of my phone. I shake my head, my eyes darting to my phone in a flustered panic.
Manny snorts a soft exhale. “Looks like you’re the one getting called away tonight.”
I check and see it’s V. They made up, and probably then some. “Yeah, well, you know how it is. Vacationing with friends.”
“I’m not sure I do, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“You sure I don’t owe you anything?”
