You sit in the hotel lobby. Bar adjacent on a comfy chair overlooking the lake and the escalator. You watch both with mild disinterest. People coming and going. Ducks taking flight.
You get a text. Probably from Katia, your phone informs you.
“High class,” you mumble to your friend, showing him the phone. “This hotel comes with Russian call girls.”
Welcome to the Contenintal Maverick City Center. How is everything with your room? If there is anything I can do to improve your stay, don’t hesitate to text! –Katia
“Dat der’s high class,” he says in mockery of english. Lowering his brow for comedic effect.
“Mhmm,” you say. You go opposite. “Indeed dear friend, tis the finest of establishments,” effecting something of the upper crust as you raise your glass.
“Pinkies out,” he chimes in. You do it just to say ‘fuck you’ as your glasses clanked.
They were out of bourbon. Your bourbon at least. And one of the scotches you liked as well. Thirsty weekend.
Of this, you inform probably Katia.
“Bourbon & scotch selection is running thin at the bar. The last three I ordered have been the end of the bottle.”
“There,” you say flopping your phone on the table.
“There what? Where?” Your friend likes to be obnoxious. He can help it, but chooses not to.
“Go back to your little anecdote,” you say.
“Fine,” he says. “It just reminded me of Amos Poe. Director in the 70s. Was visiting family in the Ukraine.”
“Always with the Ukraine,” you interject.
“Quit side tracking,” he says. “He’s a real asshole, like you, and hears they have this superstition where taking their picture steals their souls.”
“Lots of places have that one,” you interject yet again.
“Shut up,” he’s talking again. “After Poe heard that, he grabbed his camera and ran around all night ‘stealing all the souls’.”
“You’d do that,” you say knowing he would.
“Screw that,” he says. “I’d steal the money and jewels. God can have the souls, gimme the cash.”
“Did they run him out of town?” You ask to move the conversation as one does.
“Probably,” he says as he drags on a vape. “Quite the kerfuffle he caused.”
“They should make pipes out of those,” you say. “More distinguished.”
“They do, my uncle has one,” he says.
“You should have one,” you say. “Distinguish!”
“Pinkies out mothafucka,” he says taking another drag. Pinky in the air.
“Pinkies out,” you raise your glass.
A woman appears from the bar bearing a glass of amber goodness. You notice as she approaches, fully expecting her to pass on by.
Instead she smiles and sits on the arm of your plush chair, bar adjacent, placing the drink in front of you.
“Happy Birthday,” she says. “Glenlivit 12 year.” A code flashes before her eyes, shining gemstones twinkling as they stare into you.
“You must be Katia,” you say nonsequitor. Your friend sits there ignored. Watching the interchange.
“If you wish,” probably Katia says. “I can be Katia.” She brushes waves of fine midnight hair behind her ear and smiles. You somehow know in the corner of her sight she sees alphanumerals flash. AC####### Unsure of the rest.
“Did you know other animals hate ducks?” You say something stupid.
She titters with laughter. “What?” Her head cocks to the side and her eyes crinkle with amusement.
“They do.” You sip the neat scotch. “Dogs wanna fly, fish wanna walk, songbird wants to swim.”
Probably Katia squints at you in confusion and shakes her head. Her hair flows like silk from behind her ear, caressing her cheek.
“They’re jealous,” you say. “Ducks can do all three. Arrogant pricks.”
“Showoffs,” your friend adds.
“Indeed,” you bounce back. Glass raised. Pinky out.
“Pinkies out,” he says.
Sitting on the side of the chair, the beautiful woman claiming the name Katia raises her pinky.
You hook it with your own and feel the softness of her skin, pulling her hand closer til your knuckles brush and you stick up your thumb. She mimics and you press them together.
“The deal is sealed.” You look into her sparkling eyes and have no clue what the fuck is going on here but you just make it up as you go so as not to break the weird encounter.
“Then I can count on you,” she says mysteriously. Again you know she sees a string of information interpose between you.
“Of course,” you say to play along. You feel drawn by this person. Compelled. She sits in silence lingering, her lips pursed. You wonder what she thinks. What words will fall from those lips glistening red next.
“Are you a ginger?” Your friend asks this out of the blue and you could kill him.
“No?” She plays with her hair, pulling up a strand before her face to check.
“His judgement can’t be trusted when it comes to gingers,” he says. “Thought maybe it was a dye job.”
“Get off with you,” you say. “Rude.” You turn to her. “Nevermind him, he’s talking out his ass.”
“He’s funny,” she says. She wears green, a lovely emerald shade to match her eyes. You have no clue what to call the clothes she wears and you wonder if that’s why writers always have women wear sexy dresses at bars. Lazy way out.
No, she wears something resembling an antique uniform, long sleeved, with buttons running across her chest from waist to shoulder. Gold buttons to match the gold trim at various points along her shirt. Why is her shirt so complicated. Counterpoint to her simple black tights. It’s flattering though. Chains dip from the piercings in her ears, connecting some, others just dangle. Other shiny bits gleam from her wrists and fingers. It’s a multilayered effect you find slightly hyptnotic as they sway with her head tilts and laughter and waving motions.
You miss what she says next. Lost watching her lips move and dangles sway.
“See,” your friend says while gesturing with his vape. “Questionable. Bet you’re a closet ginger. He’s got a sense for these things.”
She smiles like the moon to match her twinkling eyes. More data streams.
“I just asked if the scotch was to your liking,” she says.
“Many things are to my liking right now,” you say. “Thank you for such personal attention, I know tonight has probably stretched you all thin taking care of an influx of drunken writers and their overt peculiarities.”
“It has been a rather long day,” she says non-plussed.
You can’t tell if the warmth spreading through you body is from the scotch or from her proximity, draping herself across the back of your chair. Both. You know it’s both. Why do you even wonder.
The elevator doors ding and she leans down to kiss you. Her lips linger against yours as the silken veil of her hair covers your face. And her kisses were wonderful.
She breaks the spell before you can react.
“I can count on you, yes?” Her emerald eyes flood with blue dots streaking across them.
–j.e. pittman