overture

fiction by wayne lincoln

The bar was as usual for a week night . . . a vacant stool here and there, a few groups standing around talking, and Paul dropping ice in highball setups. I took my seat near my usual corner and Paul poured my usual drink.

"You left here last night walking on clouds, Brad. Who was he, and what came of it?" Paul asked.

I laughed, or did a reasonable imitation of one. "You're way off base kid.

I just gave him a lift up to the boulevard. He was only a nice guy to talk to, that's all."

Only a nice guy to talk to

And maybe to dream of . . .

And to love!

I snapped out of it. This was getting ridiculous. I hardly knew Alan and here. I was mooning like a kid, about someone I'd lost before I started. I had nothing at all for a basis for this grand passion. Just a drink at the bar, a few more at the little corner table, and coffee at his apartment. Coffee to Kabalevsky and kisses to Strauss . . . and nothing more but talk.

It started just about this time last night, the bar was packed with the Saturday crowd the couples and groups in earnest conversation, and the lonely ones envying them, stealing shy glances at each other. Kidding myself that I was above loneliness, I watched them objectively. The brave ones simply spoke to whom they wanted to meet, the dexterous spilled their neighbors' drinks, or their own on their neighbor's cigarettes and met with apologies. The juke box keyboard sponsored some who, by prearranged accident found they had money deposited for more selections than they wanted. Taking another drink I interrupted my taproom philosophy to look over the newcomers across the horseshoe bar . . . the fat one still on the end next to him a new crewcut . . . then a couple-double take! The crewcut had smiled as my eyes passed him. Not a personal smile, but one sort of off into space, maybe at a memory. Fleeting, but while it lasted, a radiance. He smiled with eyes and lips together but with an earnestness I'd rarely seen. By now sad, or thoughtful, the face was still incredibly attractive.

..

.

•

I picked up my drink and walked over to the juke box. Punching a couple of Noel Coward numbers I loitered until I saw my place at the bar taken. So rationalized, I eased into a position behind the crewcut boy. Reaching past him for another glass I apologized, and kept talking; he accepted my invitation and ordered himself another one and turned around on the stool. We clinked glasses and he smiled again this time at me. And if hearts really do skip beats,

one

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