Back | Contents | Next
06-12-03, for Oosh
Here's Two, You
It doesn't always have to be a Quiet Night, or a Hot Night, or a Sultry Night in La Taverna. Sometimes it's just a night. Tonight, it's just a Night. There was a recent, very quick stage clean up mere moments ago, and it has now returned to the normal, well-worn and comfortable look, instead of the more formal, stuffy setting it was earlier in the evening. Writers are writing, editors are editing. There are arguments and discussions happening at various tables. There are characters being developed and situations unfolding before our eyes. There's a familiar sound of pencil lead scratching its way across paper, and one patron has set up a table-top easel and sketch pad. Charcoal smudges cover his fingers, and the smooth lines of a lithe figure quickly fill the paper in front of him.
Someone sitting in the most comfortable of the brown leather chairs down to the right of the stage has lit a pipe, and the pungent, aromatic smoke is curling above his head, lazily drawn to the ceiling as though attached to the string of a child's balloon.
Against the wall, near the door, several patrons stand around a motorcycle, comparing notes and commenting on the merits of both the bike and its former rider.
And, watching all of this is a figure sitting on a corner barstool. She's sipping something, a drink that seems to glow with a fire all its own. An amber liquid, one that looks like liquid amber. We can see the warmth pass from the drink to her lips and through her body until her wings themselves begin to take on the same warm hue.
Wings? Oh yes, her wings. For this quiet, solitary figure is none other than our own Birthday Nymph. But a more subdued, less gregarious nymph than we are accustomed to. And, as the various patrons begin to notice her presence, they sit up straighter and a hum of whispers begins to spread through the room. They wonder, we all wonder, why she's here. She only comes in for birthdays; never for a casual drink with the gang. She's already announced one birthday tonight, and she usually leaves so quickly afterwards. So if she's here…
With a final toss, she drains the glass and slides it back to the bartender, delicately waving off his offer of another. Aware now that the eyes of the Patrons are upon her, she shakes out her wings and runs her fingers through the waves in her hair before hopping gently from the barstool to the floor. She tips her wand at the jukebox, and the crystal tones of Dinah Washington singing, ‘What A Difference A Day Makes' fill the room.
Patrons slide their chairs back as she moves through the crowd, and with slightly trembling fingers, Our Nymph lifts two glasses of sparkling wine from a passing waitress' tray. She slides into an empty chair next to a solitary patron, and as she settles herself, the rest of the bar goes silent, straining to hear if this is, in fact, a birthday wish or perhaps something a bit more out of character.
In the hush of the room, the Nymph's whisper can be heard, but just barely. “A bit ago, you offered to buy me a drink while one of the birthday boys checked out the motorcycle over there. I can't return the cycle to the dealership until they're finished, and the rider seems to have disappeared with one of the other Patrons. So, what do you say? Why don't you let me buy you a drink in honor of your birthday? No need for a big ruckus this time, right?”
