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“Excuse me?” I ask, confused by what he means. I’m not a beer drinker, so I don’t know the terms.
“That’s what she’s drinking,” he points to a young blonde woman wearing a pretty sundress at the end of the bar holding a beer glass with something purple in it.
I slide my eyes back to him. “Do I look like I drink grape juice…” I pause, looking for a name tag.
“Gael,” he says, looking me up and down and then cocks his head to the side with a smile. “You look like you could put Putin in his place,” Gael laughs and turns around, leaving me even more confused.
A few moments later, he returns with a tall glass of dark ale and slides it in front of me. Although I’m not a beer drinker, the way he’s looking at me, it’s as if he’s challenging me to drink it.
“Not Today, Putin,” he says, pointing at the beer and I raise a questioning eyebrow. “Russian Imperial,” he clarifies.
I laugh. “Oh, Gael, you’re good,” I say, and take a tentative sip. “Whew.” It’s a heavy mix of dark chocolate, coffee, andveryripe fruit that makes my lips pucker. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
“You like?” Gael asks as he leans against the bar top with a smug expression.
“This’ll definitely put some hair onyourchest, Gael,” I say, making him laugh.
Placing a couple of bills on the bar top, I take my beer with me as I leave to explore the rest of the bar.
The restaurant is busy with every table now taken, and a line forming to get drinks. It’s not just a college bar like it was back in my day. There are young professionals from the nearby businesses that have sprouted up over the years, older folks that probably live in the nearby neighborhoods, and I suppose people like me who are looking for a little nostalgia.
The arcade at the back has been expanded. Pinball machines and other vintage games line the wall. The retro sounds of buttons and levers fill the space, mixing with the music from next door and people talking. I don’t feel so out of place in my t-shirt, cut off shorts, and sneakers. It’s too hot for anything more, and everyone else is just as casual. Georgie would have been right at home in her scrubs, but in a way I’m glad she didn’t come. It gives me time to explore and contemplate the girl I was before I had Noelle.
On the other side of the restaurant, I wander into the bar’s live music venue. A sultrySteppenwolfsong seeps into the bar as the singer's deep voice sings into the mic. Making my way closer to see the band on the riser, I see a thick crowd standing at the front of the stage. Tables frame the room but none are empty, so I lean against one of the wooden columns at the back, content to watch life teeming around me as if I’m in the center of a tornado just waiting to be swept up.
TheTap Roomis the kind of place you can lose yourself in, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.
I can’t help the smile on my face as I take a drink of my beer, letting the perfect mix of sweet and bitter coat my throat. Remembering this place like it was yesterday, my college roommates and I would sneak in with our fake IDs, often staying until last call. Rules were a little looser back then, but I imagine some still get away with it. We were young; we owned the dance floor and held court at one of these very tables. In fact, I think these are the same fucking tables from twenty years ago.
Now I own theboardroominstead of owning the dance floor. I may have grown up, but that same girl is still inside.
The humidity curls the hairs at the nape of my neck, and I wish I had a hair tie to offer some relief. Trying to cool myself off, I settle for leaning my cheek against the cold glass of beer.
Scanning the crowd, I look up towards the stage and lock eyes with the singer, a pretty face to go with that pretty voice. The venue is so small I can make out pieces of dark brown hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead, and watch with rapt attention as his mouth practically swallows the mic with lush lips that are perfectly kissable.
What is it about musicians that make them so goddamn sexy? I wonder to myself. Is it the tortured artist persona writing poetic lyrics? The vulnerability it takes to perform on stage? Or the romantic notion of being untouchable?
Maybe it’s the prospect of so much passion on stage being transferred to the bedroom.
This guy is made of jagged edges, tattoos, ripped jeans, and definitely not age appropriate for me. Old enough to drink, but just young enough to make it hurt. My whole body feels hot as he continues to stare at me. The crowd loves it when he emphasizes certain lyrics ofThe Pusher,shaking the hair from his face, and using his hands to draw them in. Admittedly, I haven’t been to a concert in a long time, but there’s something about him that is authentic and exciting.
Maybe it’s the beer or the stifling heat, but his eyes seem to follow as I make my way around the room. Caught staring back, it’s as if he sees my thoughts when the corner of his lip tugs into a knowing smile. It’s impossible for him to know that I’m imagining what kind of lover he would be – selfish or generous, relentless or fleeting, but his smile says otherwise. That smile could knock a girl right out of her panties. Maybe for one night I can be someone else, and that makes the prospects endless.
Finishing the rest of my beer, I set the empty glass on a nearby table before slipping into the restroom so that I can breathe. While waiting in the short line, I look at all the writing on the walls and on the sides of the stalls. It’s a typical dive bar bathroom, with bad lighting, leaky faucets, and sticky floors.
As I wash my hands and look at myself in the mirror, I notice my hair has gone limp, and any makeup I had on has long since melted off. I run my fingers through my hair trying to salvage the volume, but it’s no use. The brown waves hang just at the tops of my shoulders, and I sweep it to the side. As soon as I reach over to grab a paper towel from the dispenser, I see it… written in black sharpie, is something I had almost forgotten existed.
Twenty fucking years and they couldn’t have repainted the walls? I shake my head and drop the used paper towel into the garbage can.
Questioning why I came here, I wonder was it to relive some part of me that has been buried twenty years deep? I’m forty-three years old for fucks sake.
This isn’t me.
I don’t look back.
And I don’t have regrets.
Every decision I’ve made in my life sincehimhas brought me here, to the person I am today. I’m successful, whether or not my hair is styled or my makeup is perfect. Better yet, I’m successful becauseheisn’t in my life anymore.
