Sunday At Noon

The Bird scooter approached the curb quickly. The rider depressed the handbrake to the handle and came to a stop sooner than she would have liked. Stepping off, she heard a voice coming out of the dying light, lit by a sun rapidly setting.

You have a license for that thing?

Who are you? The fucking DMV?

She surprised herself with her quippy retort. She thought she sounded glib, but a laugh or rather a chuckle came from the opposing voice. She walked toward the neon sign reading "The Peg Leg”. The man with the question stood underneath a lamppost, yet lighted as it would only kick on after the sun made his retreat and left a barren sky save the stars and moon.

The Bird scooter sped toward the curb, and he thought the rider would surely crash as she had maybe ten feet but needed fifteen. He was ripping a heater and noticed the rider depress the handbrake completely, and as it halted abruptly, the back tire raised an inch or three off the asphalt. He laughed and imagined her eating shit, the contents of her purse spilling out in the parking spot.

You have a license for that thing?

Who are you? The fucking DMV?

He had a laugh or more a chuckle and found her sarcasm becoming. He noticed her sly smile and smiled a little himself. Standing under a dead lamppost, he saw she was either approaching him or The Peg Leg and hoped she had more control over the brakes of her gait than she did over the scooter.

As she walked closer, she thought she might know him but couldn't precisely place from where. Maybe she knew him from the past, or perhaps that was just Southern California. Faces here have a way of looking similar yet beam with individuality. She chalked it up to the latter and paid him no more mind.

As her face and figure began to come closer, he knew he knew her. From where? He couldn't say precisely, but he knew, or at least wanted to. She was beautiful, no mistaking it, no matter how absent the light was becoming in the sky. To him, it was as if the rider made him eat the shit he was moments prior laughing at her for almost eating.

He turned and headed for the door of The Peg Leg timing it perfectly, he made the threshold in front of her and held the door smiling, hoping he could save their encounter with kindness met with their trademark sarcasm.

She noticed him again, in a sort of fast walk toward the door of The Peg Leg. As she neared, she noticed he sped up his pace to catch the door, holding it for her. She thought it was cute but rather strange, as her first impression was rather unsettling.

Hi, you know, they really should have governors on those things.

Yeah, I don't know what a governor is in this context.

It's a mechanism that limits speed.

Why are you still talking about the scooter?

The door closed behind him, and he immediately felt like a brain-dead invalid. Why was he still talking about the scooter? I think males are a mostly stupid sex, especially among our counterparts. He kicked himself in the figurative sense and thought that it wasn't entirely lost quite yet. After all, she did respond to his rather failed attempt at conversation.

Again, she thought of him as cute as even though men are quite dumb, she appreciated the effort and the attempt to spark conversation. She was meeting a few girlfriends at Peg and hoped he was sitting on the other side of the bar. She was only at the Peg because she recently experienced a rather rough break-up. She would have deferred at another time but thought a few drinks didn't sound so bad considering the circumstances.

She was a pace in front of him, and he assumed she was meeting a guy, probably from Tinder, Hinge, Bumble, or any of those dating apps that twist us all up and are detrimental to society. He liked meeting people the old-fashioned way. He liked the strangeness of meeting people in public. He was hopelessly romantic, to say the least.

She felt his eyes penetrating her backside and waited for him to say something else, and depending on the words, she thought she just might ignore him outright.

Can I buy you a drink?

She turned and shot him a look that froze him where he stood. What a predictable thing to say, but still, he was cute in the attempt.

I'm meeting some friends, so I don't think I can, but thanks.

He was shot down, the wind out of his sails and capsizing. He shrugged off the encounter as he could live with failure; it was only inaction that he regretted. He returned to his pair of friends, recalled the story of the scooter girl in a virile tone, and pointed her out at the bar. They said he should approach her as there was unanimity concerning her beauty.

Upon joining her pair, she told them the story of the strange man. One friend said she should have said yes to the drink, but that was more of an effort to push her back into the field. Contradicting her companions, she wanted to regain some independence, and for that reason, she chose to ignore the strange man's advances.

Time passed through the dimly lit bar. Drinks were had, and the two groups moved like the moon, rising and falling. The usual motions of bargoers brought the groups within a narrow vicinity so close they could reach out and touch, but he dared not. One of her friends noticed the proximity and blurted projectile word vomit.

Are you the one who yelled at my friend?

Taken aback, he knew what she meant and what she was referring to. Drunk, he thought the opening existed, and only inaction stood in his way.

Yes, Your friend nearly gored herself on the curb out front.

Her friend started, looking in her direction, putting her on the spot and forcing her to interact with the strange man.

Annie, is this true?

Absolutely not. I'm not sure what he's talking about. What's your name?

I'm Jack, and I'm afraid I have to disagree. I don't think you know how close you were to crashing.

She hated him. She wanted to throw the drink in his face and smash the glass against his head. She at once knew it was not his fault. Sometimes, life fills a person with unfounded and disconnected rage that comes out in unreasonable ways. Men were not Annie's favorite animals at the moment, and for some reason, the strange man represented the entire species, but Annie knew how ridiculous that was. Granting herself and Jack a bit of grace, she softened her demeanor, shifting to one more jovial. Besides, she was a few drinks in and found a state of lightness easier to reach than she assumed.

The groups suffused, becoming one, an equal number of souls, all single and drunk. Names were exchanged, job titles traded, smiles shared, shots shooted, and drinks cheers'd. They found themselves nearing the end of the night. The moon hung heavy in a Southern Californian sky devoid of cloud cover, wide open and clear. The sextet stumbled out of The Peg Leg sufficiently drunk.

I'm not sure the scooter is a good idea.

Yeah, I'd have to agree.

I don't live too far. I suppose I can make the trek on foot.

It's a dangerous world out there. May I walk you home?

Don't think I can handle myself?

It's not so much that as much as I'd like to keep talking to you. I find you funny and wildly attractive.

Maybe you're the one I should watch out for.

Four of the six parted, two in an Uber and the others driving drunk. The remaining pair set out toward the direction from which Annie came, crossing a jungle of concrete and asphalt. Jack was more drunken than he'd thought and slipped his hand into Annie's, and against her better judgment, she allowed it to stay, the fingers tangling, one resting against the other. Jack walked on her left, acting as a barrier between Annie and the street. Again, Jack is painfully old-fashioned.

This was unusual for Annie; she chalked it up to the vodka sodas, but something more worked its way through her body, touching her insides, reaching all up to her soul, into whichever part the soul resides. When they arrived at her apartment building, they stood on the steps. Annie stood on the one above Jack's, making them eye level.

This is me.

It was very nice to meet you. I hope I can see you again. I promise no scooter talk.

I think that would be nice. Meet me here on Sunday. How's noon? I might give you my number then.

Jack appreciated her prudence and found the plans made in defiance of modern technology enticing. She flashed a smile, and his lungs about exploded inside his chest. She was so wonderfully beautiful underneath the full moon, so fucking bright he thought her hair might burst into flames.

Sunday at noon?

Sunday at noon.

Cover Art: Canto - Juliano Mazzuchini