Bar Keeper — 3rd Installment

She sat in her desk chair staring at her computer screen. A blank word processing document was open, the blinking cursor taunting her. She had been lapsing in and out of focus all morning. What was she supposed to be doing? She glanced down at her desk for help and found a hand-written document her boss wanted typed. Her boss wrote like an arthritic doctor. Sometimes she wondered if her boss had some vendetta against her to drive her crazy with menial tasks and bad grammar.

She straightened up the sheets with scrawled script barely parallel to the lines and thought of him again. He helped her mind to clear all morning. She would recall the sound of his voice, the way his hand gripped the neck of his guitar, and how he smiled. There had to be something wrong with him–some fungus or insane hobby. He wasn’t perfect, she knew. No one was.

Maybe he murdered his wife.

Maybe he has back hair.

Maybe he saves his toenail clippings.

She shook her head to help control her gag reflex.

She heard loud, thumping footsteps. Her boss was approaching.

“I need you to send a fax,” he said, rudely laying a new document over her work. “This has to go out now.”

So you’re too good to push buttons? She rebelliously thought.

They were only ever thoughts. She wouldn’t risk her job for a few words wrought with pride and haste. She was not too good to push a few buttons. Anyway, she didn’t want to hurt his feelings–granted that he had any.

“Also, I need some copies made–the financial reports from the last six months. They’re for the auditors. Oh, and some black coffee would be great.”

All right–so he didn’t have any feelings. She still kept her lips firmly pressed together. She rose and gripped her coffee cup before she ventured to the Black Hole, the affectionately named work room whose reliable technology and steadfast operations beckoned all employees to enter at their own risk. Once you enter, it is nearly impossible to escape. She was comfortable and in a patient mood this foggy morning despite the urge to turn to a good book and her oldest set of pajamas while damning the civilized world and all its nine-to-five glory. She cradled the stack of papers with one arm and pressed onward. Upon entering the Black Hole, a small line had formed behind one of her coworkers who was intent upon faxing a ten-page document long distance. She held back a groan and looked longingly at her cubicle. Could she race back to get her portioned snack bag of diet cookies without losing her spot in line? She sipped her coffee in minor defeat and decided to play the hand dealt to her. Next time, though, she would not be so naive.

She allowed herself to envision the bar’s dark and smoky atmosphere. He would be on stage singing, and she would be at a solitary table for one directly in front of the stage. He would be singing to her, and she would be cool and attractive.

His song ended. He gently placed his six-string on the floor of the stage and stood, staring at her. He stepped forward and hopped down. She felt her heartbeat quicken. His boots lightly tapped the hardwood floor, echoing in the stillness. He stopped. He was standing over her–so close–

“I know it’s easy to fall asleep in here,” a man behind her said, “but it’s your turn.”

She looked up and realized that a line formed behind her. She profusely apologized, flushing a deep crimson. Embarrassed, she began her copies and wished the work room really was a black hole.