Saturday

It’s a cool, quiet Saturday. After 5 days of being baked by early summer heat in the mid to high 80’s, the city is blanketed in low clouds and a refreshingly cold, misty rain. It’s well after dark now, and the rain still floats down and kisses the concrete and glass in the gritty city center.

I step out into the mist and take a seat on the patio. The waiter appears and I ask for the usual: Bourbon and a splash of Coke. My drink arrives accompanied by a freshly cut cigar, compliments of the house and a barman who, perhaps, knows me too well. The city is quiet, save for the odd passing automobile, and the silence on the patio is a welcome break from the omnipresent urban chaos.

I savor the first sip of a beautifully stiff drink and the bourbon’s woody flavor caresses my mouth. I light the cigar and let my mind wander as the band’s jazz music spills over from inside the dimly lit bar. I take another sip of my drink, swallow, and put the cigar to my lips and inhale. I roll the smoke around, caressing my tongue, and then exhale a billowing cloud. I watch the smoke waft away into the night, and think.

I want you. I want you here, now, next to me. Better yet, I want you at my feet.

I want to see that smile and the saucy look on your face that all those dames aspiring to be starlets imitate. I want to see you in that dress that makes your curves stand out like stars in the hills. I want to feel your skin in my hand as I take you by the neck and guide you where to sit between my feet. I want to feel your hair flow between my fingers as I blush it aside, and then gently tug on it, ever so subtly forcing you to expose your neck and shoulder. I want to hear you sigh and see you flinch as I blow smoke on your skin.

A prowl car screeches down the avenue, red light ablaze and siren piercing the silence. Adrenaline momentarily floods my brain; I wonder if they know me and have questions of the judicial variety about that pachuco and the incident with a razor back in ’43. Jerked back to reality, I wait for the coppers to disappear while I take a wallop of a drink to take the edge off, and let my mind wander off again.

Decidedly ungentlemanly thoughts invade my brain and make hair stand on end. I have thoughts of taking that same razor and slipping it across your delicate flesh ever so carefully, as I whisper quiet words of caution in your ear.  A more malevolent part of me wants to see you tremble as the blade springs forth and then feel your shuddering as I take you by the neck and touch the razor’s finely sharpened steel to more delicate parts of your body.

I take another puff on the now barely lit cigar, swirl more smoke around in my mouth, and release another cloud. I take a smoky sip of Bourbon and wonder… I wonder if a classy dame like you use that precious mouth and those luscious, lusty lips to keep this cigar lit for me?

The barman appears at the door with news of closing time. I offer him a sawbuck to go away for a while and leave me to my thoughts. No dice, he replies–the boss wants every swingin’ dick in the place gone for a private meet. I know better than to stick my nose into business. I take one final belt on the bourbon, flip the cigar into traffic, and head out into the mist, lost in my thoughts.