Re: Bar: Cat & Steve
Etta was after his time too. But, the smoky throat of blues, the syncopation of jazz—both had long histories, and some of Etta's blood had come from Steve's time. Ella Fitzgerald, Lena Horne, Lady Day. From just before his time. Lovie Austen, Sweet Emma Barrett, and backward into time and experiences molded by oppression, imperialism, and humanity. The sorrow tapped a similar vein. The smoky clubs Cat had known wouldn't have been like the ones Steve snuck into—or, the ones he wished he could sneak into, but that his lungs at the time wouldn't allow, but he felt the same magnetism to husky-spun words and the weariness of the lovelorn. That could've been depressing, that affinity, but Steve felt it was something beautiful to have experiences like that, that could be expressed and shared—but, maybe that was the artist in him, who still lived on valiantly, who sought connection in every avenue and saw it in filaments of moments missed, however sad that was.—Perhaps noteworthy, however, was that it didn't make him want to put on a slinky dress or anything of the like. His blood didn't long for lotus and abandon. No, it stirred at him differently than that. He would dance, but he wanted to dance slow. It wasn't surrender. It wasn't even savoring. It was the present for the present itself. Not for how it felt.—But, that difference could've only existed in his mind.
A number of things existed only in his mind, and a larger number, outside of his awareness. He didn't know Cat from the girl with the large green eyes haunting the streets colored coal, who was adept enough as a pickpocket, he didn't even notice he was missing his wallet until she was already gone. He didn't know Cat from the child too young to only have a bear and a collection of Russian too big for her tongue.—He didn't know she knew him, aside from the few years prior in Jersey. Three years was a short enough time for it not to be strange that he appeared largely the same. After all, she did too.
She smiled at him, and everything about her was extravagance. The bar wasn't. The clothing wasn't. But, it had been once, and it still sat on her skin with the same familiarity of the pearls. The bottle of whiskey was long-aged—longer aged than Steve was—and he gave a low whistle at the number on the label. He knew the name. It wasn't Irish whiskey, but Glenfiddich was popular after Prohibition. From the looks of it, this bottle had seen the same times Steve had. There was that grasping for connection.
"I guess you are picky. Not that I'm complaining." His smile remained, fondness in it as rich as the amber poured into warm glasses. "It's good," he said of the town. It was routine, but honest (if somewhat circumspect). "It seems to be treating you the same." His smile heightened into humor with a lift of eyebrows and a dry glance around the space. His gaze moved over the string of pearls. Change of hearts were rarely complete. He knew that too well. He lifted his glass to the woman. "To old faces and new places."