BOMBAY SAPPHIRE

Short story from Creative Writing Class. 750 words.  

Tom Wade had never met someone who could make the words “fuck you” sound so sweet. A strand or two of her short brown hair was stuck in her red lipstick, bringing streaks of the color across her pale cheek. He didn’t think it was necessary to inform her, although he might if it would continue her crude lexicon. Oh how her pretty mouth shouted all those nasty things. Her stuffed olives precariously swung around in the short glass, almost tumbling out. He waited to see if they would. It was the third martini-- Bombay Sapphire, up, dry, with extra olives--and he had been trying to politely tell her to calm down on the drinks.

Her lipstick was a tad too orange for her skin tone, but she wore it too well for complaint. She had looked nice. She smelled of soap and something floral-- he believed it was gardenia-- and was a bit too loose when she hugged him hello. Granted, they had never met before tonight, but he had always preferred a tight hug.

His friend Jeremy had pleaded for him to go on this date, swearing that this woman-- Arden Something-- was the one for him. He never believed him, but said yes nonetheless. He loved mindless entertainment.

Tom disagreed with his dear friend for the first half of the night. Every sentence that came from his mouth was countered with a completely different fact or opinion of her own. He went to private school while she went to public. He’s an atheist and she’s a born and raised Jew. The only glimmer of hope in this arrangement at all was when she recited her drink order too quickly. It was a sign of tired repetition and pattern and it imprinted itself on his brain immediately. He ordered a coke and she rolled her eyes.

This action, ever so small, sparked an interest in his bored body. He took off his slightly large suit jacket and loosened his tie. It was purple. Tom’s roommate Clarence said it went well with the dark brown of his eyes. He leaned forward, propping his elbow on the table. She leaned back. She arched a brow with an unamused squint. 

He smiled. 

She did not. 

She seemed to fight him on every action and word. He’d tire immediately of this childish behavior if it weren’t for the way her fingers, with nails painted blood red, skated around the rim of her drink.

Tom would lie to Clarence later and say that he was surprised when she abruptly stood up during a lapse of silence and walked past him, yanking him with her by just the tie. The truth is that he wasn't. He followed like a dog as she led him outside, ignoring the holler of the bartender and her forgotten bill. Tom managed to throw a couple crumpled bucks at the man, but he stopped cold when he saw the glare on her face. She halted and turned to face the yelling bartender and the man had backed away with hands in the air. She controlled the man with a single look and in that moment, he swore he fell in love. He was captivated by her brash and raw power; the air about her was the sweetest smell that ever filled his lungs.

He didn’t fight her when she led him to her car. There was no sway in her walk, but he figured it was confidence. He held the passenger’s door open to be polite --and because she was a couple martinis deep-- but she huffed at him and crossed to the driver’s side. This is the only time that Tom experienced any kind of wavering faith for this woman. He waited as she checked her face in the mirror. She wiped away that streak of red on her cheek, and then she turned to face him. She acted with no sign of intoxication or slurred movements.

“When you are unfamiliar with your surroundings, Tom, never ever drink,” she said, “Find a good bartender. Pay them double upfront. Have them fill all your drinks with water. Burns a hole in your pocket, but you never know when you might need it.”

He blinked once. Twice. A third time. He watches with his mouth ajar as she gets into the front seat.

“Now, are you coming or not?”