A Quartet
by Laura Turner
1
Ciao Bella
He ordered a dry martini and watched her.
The room droned with dark percussion, dissonance, and she glanced up, raven haired and emerald eyed. Called him closer with them.
He watched her tap the Reds against her palm, taking the lone cigarette between her lips. Lighting it, she drew in.
"A drink for the lady," he said, "Bella." Holding her gaze, he felt the citron slide down his throat. The Times restless in his lap. When it lay still, he stood.
Lowering his eyes, he checked his watch. Max would be here any moment.
2
The Man Who Reads Classics
The volume covering his face looked yellowed, dog-eared, as if it'd been archived or borrowed from a devout bibliophile. She squinted to read the title. Candide.
A teacher?
A philosopher?
Ah, a man who reads classics. He could meet her father. She stared curiously, latte machine whirring, sipping her half-caff with room. She imagined him dark, speaking foreign tongues and pressing palms with elitists when he had time.
He looked up as she approached, his eyes red-rimmed, road-mapped. His nose, crimson. An earlier meal seasoned his beard.
He smiled. And through the gap between, she saw Voltaire.
3
The Player
SERVER: Gentlemen, what can I get for you?
SUIT 1: The special.
SUIT 2: Same. (Server leaves.)
SUIT 1: We landed the Washington account.
SUIT 2: Beautiful.
SUIT 1: It was a beautiful deal, yes.
SUIT 2: That, too. (He looks toward woman at corner table.)
SERVER: Can I get you anything else? (Clanking of plates.)
SUIT 2: (Looks over shoulder at corner table.)
SUIT 1: Just the check, thanks. (Server leaves. Cell phone rings. Suit 2 hands phone to Suit 1.)
SUIT 2: Tell her I'll be in a meeting for the rest of the afternoon.
4
Subtotal
Nothing ever came of anything.
Oh, there were the deep stares in seedy New York bars, mental undressings over expense-account lunches, the occasional full-blown proposition from jobless, coffee shop philosophers.
But nothing ever came of anything. And I'd screwed enough of them to know they're all about the same. Made elaborate dinners, even. Baked pastries, ironed pants.
Score:
Them: Perfect pleats.
Love: Zip.
I lit my last cigarette, then fingered the check, tried to let his sax melt into background, to tune out hot riffs of scat.
