The Bar
Photo: www.festoonhouse.com.au
She ordered a Pinot Noir. When she ordered a Pinot Noir, she was telling the truth. When she ordered a Pinot Noir, she had bad intentions and good plans.
He was having a vodka lemon- not the commoners one with lemonade- but the Australian posh version.
The one that everytime you say it it takes 10 minutes to deliver: can I please have a grey goose with a freshly squeezed lime?
They were there, finally.
In the end, it was much easier to meet for a drink at the bar than a surf in the barrel.
He was exactly was she had hoped for.
Handsome, rich and wearing the right shoes and not some kind of ugly australianised version of cheap Italian leather, pointy, wannabes.
They talked, they laughed, they flirted. And they were being real.
That's what happens in bars. The deepest truths are naturally poured over each other protected by the background music, the drunk crowds and the people asking for lighters.
You would never share those truths sitting on a bench overlooking the ocean surrounded by silence.
She liked bars.
She thought about bars a lot. In various forms.
She didn't want to be behind bars, for instance.
She loved chocolate bars.
She was hopeless at the gymnastic bars.
She didn't like being barred from things.
And she tended to bar the doors when it came to love.
He paid the bill and escorted her to the elevator. When the doors closed he pushed her to the wall and kissed her passionately. Then he disappeared from her life.
She started thinking about bars again.
She thought that ultimately the most meaningful thing she learnt about bars was that she really needed to raise the bar.