A transgender woman walks self-possessed into a bar, but it’s morning, and there’s a line and more keeping her at arms length from him. The man behind the stainless steel counter, with the soft skin and face of a woman, doesn’t see her. So far away is he, and not a minute longer can she stand to wait. Seasons change, dials turn, and each velvet lyric from the blonde before her pierces her lobe like the gold hoop that hugs his right ear. That should be her, enfolding him with clever and one-liners. She studies his ticks. Dimples, rising towards temples. One, two, four seconds pass, and she shrinks herself. Disc by disc, she curls towards the floor as Percy Sledge plays from the loud speaker. Her kitten heels crimson, unbeknown to him. He is a man who loves no woman, and he hasn’t noticed her past her presence. His mind is close-lipped, on the man second in line in front of her who fingers City of Night and a ballpoint pen, but she doesn’t see him. He has only to focus on the pour, and le conditionnel présent. Conjugation is a mind’s trick. He mutters no ending in sight to himself, -ais, -ais, -ait, -ions, -iez, -aient as steamed milk cataracts into a cup, then slows. A heart forms as one had eons ago, and he looks up at him. Then, down.
[insert more]
“I’m Amie, but you can call me Cherrie, comme ma chérie.”
“As you please, my dear lady.”
“Has anyone ever told you, you look like a young Sal Mineo?”
“No,” said the man with the soft skin and face of a woman behind the counter. “You would be the only one.”
“The one and only.”
“Of course.”
“Well, Sal was a cutie.”
“Why, thank you, I will take that as a compliment.”
“Good, because it was one. Toodaloo, love.”
“Au revoir.”
This wasn’t goodbye, Amie had said to herself six weeks ago. This was see you later, see you soon, as soon as next Saturday, except for the fact that the man behind the stainless steel counter who reminds her of Salvatore and had become her muse wouldn’t be there, not where he should be. Before her is a stranger.
“Where’s Sal?”
“Hi, uh, who, sorry?”
“Tall, dark, handsome man who works here Saturday mornings.”
“Oh, Henry, he’s off for a few weeks.”
“Henry,” says Cherrie whose pleasant surprise (at the rhyme) tends again towards sorrow. “For how long?”
“A couple of weeks.”
“When will he back.”
“I’m sorry,” says the younger who wears a pink clip to pinch her fringe behind the stainless steel counter. (Grade, pending.) “I don’t know his dates.”
[insert more]
An even younger woman with a long blonde bob that has no bounce left skips into the bar, wearing no winter coat. Her hair is stringy and wet, like cheese or mildewed straw, and she comes right up to him from behind. Grabbing his rotator cuffs, she twists her torso and curls towards the left side of his face so he can see her. He already knows who molests him, the man with the blonde hair who has his thumb between something brand new (per usual). Sitting on the high stool, he doesn’t scare.
“Hi,” she says to him, releasing her hold. “What are you reading?”
“The Hunter Gracchus. Good morning.”
“Is it? Who is Gracchus.”
She walks away from him and wraps the counter until she is on the other side, planting herself in front of him.
“The hunter.”
She starts to fold forks and knives inside of napkins.
“Right. Well, what does he hunt?”
“He hunts a chamois.”
“A sham-what?”
“A chamois. It’s like a little mountain goat or something.”
“And does he catch it? Or what’s the story about?”
“It’s about the hunter who hunts the chamois but fails in catching it.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah, actually, quite fatally. He falls off a precipice to his death.”
“He dies?”
“Yeah.”
“So that’s the ending.”
“No, that’s the beginning.”
“Meaning?”
“He’s a dead man walking.”
“He is a ghost?”
“No, yes, maybe.”
“It doesn’t seem like you know what’s happening in the story.”
“It’s very subjective.”
[insert more]
He remains a scar on her cortex.