It's Like Wishing for Rain
Inebriated, uninhibited, not caught up of the heaviness of daily life. Abel didn't regret a thing in that moment.
He sat there, nestled in the corner of the darkened room scoping out the room periodically from his vantage point. He vaguely missed the days when smoking was allowed int eh bars of New York City because at this moment in time, it really would've added to the ambiance and provided a necessary layer to the environment in which he found himself which would've suited his mood perfectly. Alas, these days he'd have had to stuff himself back into his stiff woolen coat and shamble back out through the not-so-discreet phonebooth of an entrance, push through the waiting crowd in the conjoined entryway of the neighboring hotdog joint and out into the cool February air to catch a fresh breath before filling his lungs with the comforting and stifling smoke to which they were accustomed. He'd put it off for a few more minutes and probably take off after that. It really wasn't worth the hassle to get back into this place and the other patrons were mostly tourists or pretentious locals. If he weren't so fond of the charcoal pin-stripe vested member of the staff, he wouldn't bother coming here at all. Just seeing him for a moment, whether he was serving up his bacon-infuse Benton's Old Fashioned and Wylie Dog or just manning the phone booth and letting the selected patrons through, was generally the highlight of his Thursday evenings.
Abel slowly sipped at his drink, his food was long since finished and his basket cleared away. John, who was manning the bar this evening in his finely pressed button down and tweed trousers with suspenders adding to the fanciness that his pale trim face and finely coiffed blonde locks affected, made no attempts to rush him out. John knew he was a regular and permitted him his space, even when there was a lengthy line outside just dying to get in. If John looked like he'd stepped into the wrong time period, as finely dressed as he was, Cohen certainly looked it. He wore amazingly tailored clothing each week, accented acutely by his extremely good tastes in vests. Though he was a bit stockier than John, he came off as ever more elegant, if that was even possible. John may as well have been heir to Thranduil for his grace and ethereal appearance, but Cohen just struck a cord in Abel from the first day he'd been coerced into the joint by a well-intentioned friend from out of town who had heard of it and thought it seemed like an awesome way to spend their evening.
That night, Cohen had been working the bar where they'd been seated. He'd moved with such fluidity, filling the orders of all the patrons, that when he'd stopped and focused all of his attention on Abel, it had seemed so out of place. Stopping had no place in fluidity. The pause, the slight right tilt of his head in slight confusion, or was it recognition, when he glanced at Abel following deliverance of his order had just stuck with him. Had Abel struck a cord within him as Cohen had with him? He wondered this more and more each week, as Cohen smiled warmly at him as he let him into the supposedly secret location on the Thursdays which he was working the door. Abel wondered, absently running a hand through his short, sandy hair out of habit while he was deep in thought, if Cohen was attached to the other end of his red thread after all these weeks of feeling drawn here. With one last big sip, he finished off his drink and left the cash for John to scoop up. That last thought, as he pondered why he kept coming here at all, was more than enough to drive him back outside and into the cold.
He couldn't bring himself to return Cohen's bright smile as he got the door for him, didn't even meet his eyes while he gave him half a nod and headed out through the crowd after the 40-something year old couple realized they had to squeeze back out of the phonebooth in order for him to leave through the small door. As he lit up his Djarum clove cigar and laughed flatly at the terrible parody it was of the cigarettes he'd grown to love just a few years prior, he wondered just what the hell he was doing here. He'd never spoken to the man outside of this bar. He never had more than small talk with him. Abel took a deep drag, closing his eyes for just a moment, before propelling himself down Saint Marks and back towards the 6. He dismissed the mental pedestal he'd built up for the vested man inside the establishment that he was hastily walking away from, tried to dismiss the notions he'd given himself. He flicked the butt of the cigarette off towards the curb. He felt stupid for this Thursday ritual of his but he could not foresee himself changing it. He wouldn't stop going and he wouldn't be that guy, asking a staff member out and being awkwardly brushed off and let down. Again he ran a hand through his hair, gave a shrug as he shoved a hand quickly into the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve his MetroCard before clambering down into the Astor Place station. He ignored everyone in that bar and yet never opened up to the one that he thought he would want to. He really should start going out more in Park Slope and stop torturing himself here, entirely out of the way of his day to day life. He was headed home alone again. He knew he'd be back next Thursday before the train even pulled away from the dingy platform.
He sat there, nestled in the corner of the darkened room scoping out the room periodically from his vantage point. He vaguely missed the days when smoking was allowed int eh bars of New York City because at this moment in time, it really would've added to the ambiance and provided a necessary layer to the environment in which he found himself which would've suited his mood perfectly. Alas, these days he'd have had to stuff himself back into his stiff woolen coat and shamble back out through the not-so-discreet phonebooth of an entrance, push through the waiting crowd in the conjoined entryway of the neighboring hotdog joint and out into the cool February air to catch a fresh breath before filling his lungs with the comforting and stifling smoke to which they were accustomed. He'd put it off for a few more minutes and probably take off after that. It really wasn't worth the hassle to get back into this place and the other patrons were mostly tourists or pretentious locals. If he weren't so fond of the charcoal pin-stripe vested member of the staff, he wouldn't bother coming here at all. Just seeing him for a moment, whether he was serving up his bacon-infuse Benton's Old Fashioned and Wylie Dog or just manning the phone booth and letting the selected patrons through, was generally the highlight of his Thursday evenings.
Abel slowly sipped at his drink, his food was long since finished and his basket cleared away. John, who was manning the bar this evening in his finely pressed button down and tweed trousers with suspenders adding to the fanciness that his pale trim face and finely coiffed blonde locks affected, made no attempts to rush him out. John knew he was a regular and permitted him his space, even when there was a lengthy line outside just dying to get in. If John looked like he'd stepped into the wrong time period, as finely dressed as he was, Cohen certainly looked it. He wore amazingly tailored clothing each week, accented acutely by his extremely good tastes in vests. Though he was a bit stockier than John, he came off as ever more elegant, if that was even possible. John may as well have been heir to Thranduil for his grace and ethereal appearance, but Cohen just struck a cord in Abel from the first day he'd been coerced into the joint by a well-intentioned friend from out of town who had heard of it and thought it seemed like an awesome way to spend their evening.
That night, Cohen had been working the bar where they'd been seated. He'd moved with such fluidity, filling the orders of all the patrons, that when he'd stopped and focused all of his attention on Abel, it had seemed so out of place. Stopping had no place in fluidity. The pause, the slight right tilt of his head in slight confusion, or was it recognition, when he glanced at Abel following deliverance of his order had just stuck with him. Had Abel struck a cord within him as Cohen had with him? He wondered this more and more each week, as Cohen smiled warmly at him as he let him into the supposedly secret location on the Thursdays which he was working the door. Abel wondered, absently running a hand through his short, sandy hair out of habit while he was deep in thought, if Cohen was attached to the other end of his red thread after all these weeks of feeling drawn here. With one last big sip, he finished off his drink and left the cash for John to scoop up. That last thought, as he pondered why he kept coming here at all, was more than enough to drive him back outside and into the cold.
He couldn't bring himself to return Cohen's bright smile as he got the door for him, didn't even meet his eyes while he gave him half a nod and headed out through the crowd after the 40-something year old couple realized they had to squeeze back out of the phonebooth in order for him to leave through the small door. As he lit up his Djarum clove cigar and laughed flatly at the terrible parody it was of the cigarettes he'd grown to love just a few years prior, he wondered just what the hell he was doing here. He'd never spoken to the man outside of this bar. He never had more than small talk with him. Abel took a deep drag, closing his eyes for just a moment, before propelling himself down Saint Marks and back towards the 6. He dismissed the mental pedestal he'd built up for the vested man inside the establishment that he was hastily walking away from, tried to dismiss the notions he'd given himself. He flicked the butt of the cigarette off towards the curb. He felt stupid for this Thursday ritual of his but he could not foresee himself changing it. He wouldn't stop going and he wouldn't be that guy, asking a staff member out and being awkwardly brushed off and let down. Again he ran a hand through his hair, gave a shrug as he shoved a hand quickly into the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve his MetroCard before clambering down into the Astor Place station. He ignored everyone in that bar and yet never opened up to the one that he thought he would want to. He really should start going out more in Park Slope and stop torturing himself here, entirely out of the way of his day to day life. He was headed home alone again. He knew he'd be back next Thursday before the train even pulled away from the dingy platform.