just floating (together)

It was only the second time I’d ever gone to a bar alone. The first time I’d felt awkward, but I had a friend who was a musician (and I’ll admit I had a crush on this friend), and he’d invited me to come hear him play, so I went, even though none of my friends would go out with me at that hour on a weeknight or in such bitter cold. It was a small bar; a small gig. Maybe four or five people listened; another one leaned forward and chatted at the bartender. During the sets, I sipped my beer slowly and focused on the band. During the breaks, the friend sat with me and chatted, and so I, who had grown up excruciatingly shy, made it through this most public lone venture just fine.

Still, I didn’t repeat the pursuit until this week, a solid three or four years later in time. I’ve never truly understood sitting at a bar alone; never been into alcohol enough to want to drink on my own. But listening to music solo is a different story; I do that all the time. And I was in the mood for the dim lighting; in the mood for the buoyant tunes. Plus I had a theory developing, which was that at the particular bar I was heading to, I’d meet someone when sitting alone. Every time I’d ever waited for a friend there, some person on a stool next to me had started to talk. So I thought I’d see if I could will that to happen; if when intending to meet someone interesting that way, I might.

Of course, it took half an hour for anyone in the crowded room to even look my way. When he did, it was only because his date had hit the bathroom, but rather than cut my losses, I thought what the heck. So I answered his question, which was about the genre of music being played. And I smiled as he tilted his head to think and then said it made him picture Micky Mouse, from the old days, back when it was in black and white. With his fingers he mimicked a mouse scurrying around; with his glazed eyes he watched it run. An old French film, I told him, that’s where this music takes me. He shook his head slowly, saying no, no—then twittered his fingers again as he turned his back to me and kissed his returning date.

The next time she left him, he leaned in close and whispered something about a boat. I laughed and asked for an explanation, and he said now he and Micky were on a sailboat, not moving, just… and I contributed lolling, at which his eyes lit up, and he repeated it. Lolling on the Caribbean. Sails up or down? I asked. All up, he said, but there’s no wind, so we’re just floating, smoking some Mexican weed. Do we have hammocks on board? I asked him. And he said yes, he thought we should. Then I’m in a hammock, I told him; and he nodded. He looked me in the eye then, and his grin widened. This time the girl sat down and he stayed facing me. She tugged at his arm and he stayed facing me, the taste of the ocean breeze on his lips.

It wasn’t the encounter I was expecting, but it was hard to beat.