The tall, tan redhead with the dreads isn’t here tonight. He watches me over his glass. I’ve never seen anyone who can look, but not look, and still be eye fucking me the way this guy does. He has long, slim fingers. He uses them to cradle his glass in a graceful way that reminds me of dancers and royalty.
Jack on the rocks. Every Wednesday for the last 6 months he has come here, to the club where I work, to drink and stare. He isn’t the first customer to give me the wandering eye. As a bartender, I’m used to chasing off the stray amorous advance, but this…his eyes. They’re always on me and I swear sometimes they aren’t normal. Sometimes they flash an odd golden green before settling back to a darker human shade.
2 months ago when I handed him his drink I noticed that when they’re normal his eyes are a very pretty shade that might be described as hazel with a ring of grey and starburst of hunter green surrounding his pupils. Our fingers touched and I had to work with a hard on for the next 45 minutes.
I’ve never told my boyfriend about him. Jack on the rocks. The master of the eyefuck. He’s my little secret. He looks and I pretend not to notice him looking. One drink and then he disappears. Even though every twitchy fiber of my body seems attuned to his presence from the moment he arrives in the building I’ve never seen him leave. I always turn to check on him and find a 10$ tip and a dirty glass. I would say he’s a ghost, but they don’t drink and they definitely don’t tip.
It’s like clockwork.
Tonight is different though. It’s Wednesday again, and I’ve worked the entire shift without a visit from my favorite customer. At the end of the night I’m staring at myself in the mirror in the bathroom. I brush my curly brown hair out of my bright blue eyes with a small sigh. Probably time for a hair cut, but I never seem to have the time. I’m tired and my solid shoulders have a slump. I rub my eyes and sigh again, wishing I were already home and in the shower. Wishing I were happy. Wishing I were not so depressed at not seeing a customer who never even talks to me.
I’m doing a last check of the club. The cleaning crew will be in to de-funk the sticky, grungy dance floor in the morning. The black, granite bar is polished to a high glossy shine. All of the glasses are clean and in order. I check to make sure everything is restocked and ready for tomorrow when a throat clears behind me.
“Jack on the rocks,” the low voice sizzles down my spine. I jerk my head around and there he is. My hands shake as I pour him a drink and slide it to him. He nods in thanks and tips it quickly down his throat. He doesn’t linger over it.
“This won’t stop once it starts,” his voice has a sandpaper edge, but it melts like butter on my ears and causes heat to pool in my groin.
I nod. I don’t see him move. One moment he is on his stool, one hand propping up his chin, and the next a hot tongue is pressing the last drops of whiskey from his glass into my mouth. In a whirl, he’s gone and I’m left hard and panting staring stupidly around myself at the empty, lonesome night club. I shake myself. If it weren’t for the taste of whiskey in my mouth I might be able to convince myself I’d been hallucinating.
If it weren’t for the taste of whiskey I might be able to sleep tonight.