Flash Fiction | Love story | Humor | Romance
The Barman, The Girl, and The Wig
Scene set in a hotel bar. Inspired by a scene in Pretty Woman.
I strolled casually across the entrance lobby’s polished wooden floor, heading for the bar. I liked the look of this hotel; it isn’t the newest in town, but it is in a now fashionable area and seems to be enjoying a renaissance, as well as a growing reputation for being an excellent place to attract members of the opposite sex.
As I passed the reception desk, I noticed one of the receptionists giving me a sidelong look. Naturally, I rewarded her with a smile. She is younger by at least fifty years, but then, some young women find balding men sexy, and that, along with the new suit, silk shirt, and recently acquired tan, surely helped.
It was well after eight, yet the bar was still relatively quiet. There is a smell of new carpet mixed with cigarette and cigar smoke. The background music — a BB King blues number — is barely audible. The barman is polishing glasses.
“Good evening, sir. What can I get you?”
“Malt whisky, please.”
“Any particular brand, sir?”
A place like this won’t keep Macallan on the shelf.
“Your best.”
An overweight middle-aged man sits alone, sipping at a pint of dark beer. Farther along the bar, a smartly dressed couple stand, the man on his iPhone. Two other young couples share a table near the center of the room.
I hear the sound of high heels approaching via the lobby. This time, it is the other girl from the reception desk with a more businesslike expression.
She stands away from the bar and looks around. She then turns and strides away.
“Here’s your whiskey, sir.” The barman places the glass of gold in front of me.
I take a sip and close my eyes for a moment. I could do with a cigarette but resist the urge. Quitting was hard, but this is my seventh week, and I’m determined.
The sound of high heels again, but a different, a less hurried, even stride.
I watch as the brunette enters the room, aware that almost every other pair of male eyes in the room has become, at least momentarily, distracted and keeps looking straight ahead, taking the shortest route to the bar.
The barman turns towards her and smiles. “Good evening, madam. What would you like?”
“A medium white dry wine, please.”
Her voice is soft but slightly husky. She places her purse on the bar before pushing herself up onto one of the barstools. I catch a momentary flash of white thigh above the stocking top. How long is it since women wore this type of garment? She adjusts the hem of her dress, a little black number with a high neckline but low at the back.
The barman pours the wine with practiced ease and places the glass on the bar.
“Are you a guest, madam?”
“Yes, room eleven.”
I watch as the barman makes a chit and hands it to the woman to sign.
“Thank you, madam.”
She swallows a first sip, then opens her purse and takes out a small mirror, quickly checking her appearance.
I know that she saw me enter, and clearly, she cannot resist the opportunity to take another look. She sips her drink; a smile seems to tug at the corner of her mouth.
“Buy you another?’” It is the overweight beer drinker down the bar.
“Thank you, no.” She doesn’t even turn to look at the man. The guy reacts as though she’s slapped his face. The barman seems a little stunned.
“Suit your bloody self,” the fat guy says, his face a mixture of shock, anger and indecision. The barman waits to take his order, but the man turns, slides from his barstool, and walks out.
All conversation ceases. More customers arrive. The barman waits, and when they are ready, he serves them.
When he’s done, I ask for another whiskey. “And another one for the lady.”
The barman looks alarmed. His expression seems to say, ‘Are you crazy?’
“Thank you. I’ll have the same again, please.” The brunette smiles.
The barman looks relieved.
“Thank you, sir,” she says, looking directly at me.
“If you do not mind me saying, you sure look good in that little black dress,” I say.
We sit there making idle chat.
With an early start, I signal to the barman that I’m leaving.
The brunette downs the rest of her wine in one and then looks at me, tilting her head slightly and pushing her long hair back over her shoulder with her right hand. “Use some company?” She asks.
“Sure,” I say and look at the barman. “Put my drinks on my tab, will you?”
“Yes, sir. Room?”
“Room eleven. Thank you.”
“We walk away from the bar arm in arm.
“Did you think a wig would disguise the woman from the man who loves her most in the world, honey?”
“I hoped not, but I was just checking.”
Jenny and I stand and wait for the elevator, smiles lighting our mischievous faces.
More from Harry:
Adrienne Beaumont, The Sturg, Vidya Sury, Collecting Smiles, Trisha Faye, Karen Schwartz, Nancy Oglesby, Katie Michaelson, Bernie Pullen, Michelle Jimerson Morris, Amy, Julia A. Keirns, Pamela Oglesby, Tina, Pat Romito LaPointe, Brandon Ellrich, Misty Rae, Karen Hoffman, Susie Winfield, Vincent Pisano, Marlene Samuels, Ray Day, Randy Pulley, Michael Rhodes, Lu Skerdoo, Pluto Wolnosci 🟣, Paula Shablo, Bruce Coulter, Ellen Baker, Kelley Murphy, Leigh-Anne Dennison, Patricia Timmermans, Keeley Schroder, Jan Sebastian 🖐👩🦰, James Michael Wilkinson, Whye Waite, John Hansen, Trudy Van Buskirk, Robert Bush | Dixie Dodd
(No offense will be taken if you dislike being tagged for various reasons. Please let me know, and I’ll be sure it doesn’t happen on my posts again. If, on the other hand, you’d grace me by allowing a tag, I’d be thrilled to add you.)
Thanks for reading.
