“You are the most beautiful man that I’ve ever seen,” she said, her voice soft, almost reflective. “You smell even better than you look.”
I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. “But how do Itaste?”
“I’m being serious, Brando,” she said, her voice stronger, more conviction behind it. “And I have good taste. Everyone says so.”
I laughed at the innocent way she had saideveryone says so. Her mouth twitched with humor after she realized how the comment had sounded.
“Whatever you say, Rockett.” I laughed even harder. “But I have even better taste.Isay so.”
“Rockett?”
“You’re the female version of Rocky. The way you threw that punch last night.” I whistled.
She went to unweave her hand from mine, but I held tight, still grinning even after I’d stopped laughing.
Maggie Beautiful interrupted our moment to point out that we’d arrived early and we should check out a small bar she had noticed along the way before we went to dinner. Scarlett agreed.
The bar was old, the bartender behind the counter even older. Black and white pictures of boxing greats were framed and hung on the walls, and advertisements for the sport, posters and such of old boxing matches, were stuck here and there. A jukebox sat in the far corner, surrounded by records hung from string.
A few barstools were stacked in the corner, not ready for the evening rush, if the placed would be rushed. Only the four of us occupied the bar, bartender not included. Long curtains against tall windows only allowed in slices of light. The entire place felt moody and blue.
I took Scarlett’s coat, resting it over mine, leaving both to dangle over an empty stool before the bar. A variety of good liquor held pride of place along the long mirror, our reflections along with them.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked, throwing his dishrag over his shoulder.
“Water for me. Red wine for my wife.” I looked at Aberto.
“Whiskey,” he said.
“One whiskey, neat. A Jack and Coke for the young lady over there.” I dipped my head in Maggie Beautiful’s diretion.
The bartender eyed Maggie Beautiful and smiled. She giggled, her face lighting up. I gave the bartender a hundred dollar bill and told him to keep the change.
“I’ll keep ’em comin’.” He used his ancient gold cash register to stash the money.
Scarlett took her glass of red wine and moved toward the jukebox.
“Free, darlin’,” the bartender said, mopping up the spotless counter. “It’s too old to eat coins anymore.”
Scarlett nodded, eyes down, looking over the pages of music.
Maggie Beautiful and Aberto’s conversation played in the back of my mind, something about Louisiana, Aberto having questions about visiting after New York. My eyes stayed on my wife. She searched for a song for a minute or two before she made her selection. Then she made it back to the bar, taking a sip of her wine. It was almost gone.
I didn’t even have to signal him. The bartender had another poured just as Scarlett drained the last drop. I slid him another hundred for his trouble.
She swished the ruby liquid around the glass for a second, her hand around the stem, before she cleared her throat. Still, her voice came out low. I only caught the last three words of the sentence—blowing off steam.
“That’s why you went to The Club,” I said.
“Yes.” She sighed, and I could smell the red wine on her tongue. “I—I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just—I needed todosomething.”
“Blow off some steam.”
“I suppose.” She looked me in the eye. “I’m sorry, Brando. I’ll never do that to you again.”
Placing a finger underneath her chin, I gave her a soft kiss that lingered after it was over. “There’s music here. The dance floor is yours.”
She smiled. “All mine?”
