The Game of Crashing Into Strangers to Feel

They almost always interrupted the solace with the same questions, inquiring after the book she hunched over, its title, its contents, why she had it at all. And she wielded the open pages like a sword to guard herself against them, bringing herself to the fore, as if she knew they’d never understand her. But he was always there. It took weeks for her to realize they never spoke. Now, her eyes darted about the pages of the latest novel, losing herself in the white space between words, hoping she’d find some for him. Maybe. Someday. If he took the bait. If she could ever look up. The bar was once just a place she could train herself to overcome the chaos inside her head. Somehow, though, it was becoming a test. One night a week, two, then every weekend. Just to see if he’d finally ask — stumbling over as the others had — to lean in close and break the silence in her head like the echoing of gunfire.

The voices of the past still rang, and she picked up her cocktail to sharpen her focus with a sour gulp of melted ice. She would need another, but she wanted him to buy it. The binding on Jane Eyre creaked as she closed it, and she launched herself from her stool and walked intently toward the other end of the long maple bar top. Mixed martial arts athletes locked limbs on a television screen above, and he shifted his gaze away as abruptly as she sat beside him, finding a confident balance in gripping her new seat. 

“I’ve seen you here before,” she blurted. The message sounded less declarative aloud than she meant. She tried again. “I mean, I think I’ve seen you before. I don’t know your life.” Okay, that’s the wrong direction, you idiot. Do it better, she told herself. 

“Yeah, I’ve been here before. Just like you.” He remained facing her, but his eyes wandered back to the TV. She could see the fantasy she so carefully threaded in her mind crumble carelessly before her. He’d noticed her, too. He just didn’t care. 

“Well, err, okay, sorry to bother you,” she replied, unlocking her fingers from the edge of the bar. 

She sighed and pivoted to walk away until a soft weight fell heavy over her shoulder. It tugged her backward, and she spun around to find a new limb protruding from her like a thick sinewy vine, slackly strung up to the man. He brought his hand back to clasp the beer bottle before him, and he waited a beat to speak. He touched me. He fucking touched me. 

“Was that it, then?” he said, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Wh—” she started. But she lost the word in a nervous exhale. “Wh-what?”

“All this time, and that was all you had? All the chitchat you could muster?”

Something about his candor shocked her. And for the first time, she could see the whites of his eyes. His irises were a shadowy blue-green mixture with a light brown ring around each pupil. They looked like tiny globes but were dark enough to obscure the color from far away. The discovery helped hold her attention. “I didn’t realize you were keeping score.”

“No score. But I have kept track. Five nights now, you’ve sat down there.” He extended a finger out parallel to the bar. “And five nights, never put that paper brick down.”

“Oh,” she replied, shrugging.

“What’s so damn captivating anyhow?”

She raised herself back to the stool beside him — slightly more at ease. “A Bronte.”

“A who-tay?” There was a small curve to the corner of his mouth, a slight twinge, maybe a smile he held back. It made her laugh — a quick sound exiting out with a breath. He was keeping score, alright. And he was winning. Oh no, you don’t. 

“A book by a Bronte. Uh, Charlotte, I mean. Charlotte Bronte.”

“I coulda guessed,” he said, nodding. 

“Could you? Cause you never said anything.”

“What? What am I supposed to do? Interrupt you reading? You wouldn’t bring that here if you wanted people to bother you.”

“No? I wouldn’t?” She was trying to play his game. She had made the introduction, but he made it a contest. Who could get the other to admit attraction first? To suss out an intention? They’d been playing it all along. And she needed to catch up. “Then, why have I stopped?”

“Well, since we’re apparently playing twenty questions, I think the better one is why did you stop and then come over here? You abandoned your book.”

Leaning forward, she could catch the smell of mild sweat and dirt and soap she couldn’t identify. She hungered a little. Their forearms touched. “Let’s just say I’m interested in a different story.”

“How does it go? Tell me.” 

“I don’t know yet. But I’m …” She reclined — her voice trailing off — and a smile stretched across his face to urge her on. “I’m eager to find out.” 

She knew this was an impasse. He picked up his beer at the neck of the bottle, delicately bringing it to his lips and placing it down in a new place nearer to her. Seconds later, he shifted his seat. She rested her chin in her hands. The conversation seemed to continue without words. And she tried to account for what she was feeling. Her stomach filled with a dull ache. She wondered if he ached, too. If he longed. All the while, all those nights they sat opposite each other without acknowledgment, she’d wanted him. Without knowing anything about him. And still, he’d known her. He took note of her presence, perhaps calculating the chances he’d have if he tore her from her reading and heedlessly unleashed some pickup line at last call in hopes to take her home. She wondered if he thought of her outside the bar. If he regretted not taking that chance. Or if he’d always thought it’d come to this — that she’d place a piece so that he may have her cornered, having evaded her trap and ensnared her in his. He’s too cool to make the first move, she thought. He’s too cool to give much away at all. This is hard. 

She forgot she wanted another drink. And they didn’t need much chitchat. A visceral energy, an exchange of instinct had amassed, and as he reached out for his beer again, she found herself pulling it away in a blink. Curiously, he pursed his lips, feigning annoyance. Her other hand stopped him, and her grip tightened before he broke their momentary silence. 

“So, what’s it going to be, Bronte?” His arm had tensed, waiting for its release. 

“Haha, that’s not my name,” she said, letting him go. “And that depends on you.” 

“I’m listening.” 

“It’s been a long time since I brought a book to the bar, expecting to be left alone.”

“But you always bring a book to the bar.”

“I know.”

“Then, what were you expecting?”

She raised her voice. “You!” 

Wordlessly, he pulled a ten-dollar bill in a fold from his pocket and slapped it on the bar. And heading toward the door, she trailed him — their fingers lightly interlocked. He scooped up Jane Eyre as they passed and handed it to her. She clutched it, drawing it to her chest as they entered the cold. Jane never compromised her principles for love. She never let a man dictate her actions. Instead, Jane waited. Yet, the reader did not feel compromised. She felt empowered. She’d done it. Even if it was a sacrifice, a proverbial checkmate. Whatever it was that connected them, she didn’t care. She was glad she had broken their silence, propelling their game to new heights. And she repeated the idea to herself as they approached a parking lot down the street. 

They found what she assumed was his vehicle. A sensible four-door Honda, black or dark blue. It was isolated and spaces away from others nearby — just out of reach of a streetlight. He guided her into the backseat with his hand at the small of her back. For several minutes, a bevy of thoughts had fluttered through her mind. In and out. And she lost track of her nerves. Then, the silence that came with the slam of the passenger door deafened whatever apprehension was left. It was too dark to see his eyes entirely, but there was a shiny glint in them. His look was inviting and playful. She clasped the side of his scratchy face with her hand, pulling him at the collar toward her. 

His mouth was wet and hot, and she could taste the citrus of beer on his tongue. They let themselves go, as their hands loosely roamed the other’s body — he tracing her tender bits with his fingertips, and she muffling moans by burying her face in his neck. 

His stubble had worn a redness on her cheeks. “God,” he said. “God, I’ve wanted you.” 

She kissed him again, pausing to breathe. “You don’t even know my name.”

“I don’t care.” Feeling her surprise, he stroked her shoulders. “Why? Do you?”

Without answering, she straddled him. His breathing quickened — his hands helplessly at rest at his sides. As she twisted herself out of her clothes, they returned to her, squeezing handfuls of flesh until maneuvering himself inside her. But she didn’t let him control the motion of her hips, as his limbs suggested. She gathered his hands, guiding them up over her midriff. He squeezed again, drawing her close. 

“Oh baby,” he said. “God. Oh, baby, what are you doing to me?”

A breathy grown eked out of her, unable to speak. She wanted to tell him how he felt to her. The way his embrace made her chest tighten. That small trickles of his sweat tasted sweet. And how the pitch in his seated gate opened her up, allowing him to sink further inside her. She spent several minutes in motion with her face tucked into each shoulder as if to hide her arousal. For a moment, he held her still at the waist, nudging her chin to look at him. His gaze penetrated something else. Something untapped. The tightness in her chest loosened. She breathed more heavily. Made to look at him, suddenly, the features of her face fell with a burst of emotion. She was crying. 

“I can’t be that bad.” He stroked her face. 

“You’re not. Not at all,” she replied, shaking her head. “It’s just … this has never happened before. Like this.”

“Why is that upsetting?” His tone teased her, but his look was empathetic. “Didn’t you know I wanted you? Didn’t you know it’d come to this?” 

She shook her head again. 

“Didn’t you want me?”

She nodded, and without losing contact, he dipped her, laying her across the seat.

“Tell me. Tell me how you wanted me,” he whispered closely. He’d lowered himself atop her and resumed movement. Slowly at first, building momentum as if winding up a toy.

She waited for their connection to rupture, to explode in satisfaction, and pool like melted butter. “Like this,” she said. “I imagined you like this.”

“How does it feel?”

“Primal. Atmospheric. Like I’ll never come down.”