The Barstool: A Writing Exercise

Hey! Sorry for the lackluster posting while I was on travel. I am back, though. Here’s a vignette inspired by the word “barstool” that I wrote while I was stuck in the airport Friday. Hope you enjoy!

Pinkies up!

The Barstool

By: Melissa Whitney

Lucy sipped her glass of chardonnay. Its buttery liquid flushing her cheeks. Such a lightweight. She placed the glass back on the bar, the cool condensation coating her fingers.

            Drinking alone wasn’t normal for Lucy, but nothing about this week had been normal. It was supposed to be just your average work trip. Fly to Chicago, spend a week surveying a small cohort of outpatient clinics, and fly back home to San Diego. It was all standard for her.

            Foolish! She sighed to herself, the pads of her fingers skating across the smooth glass.

Leaning against the hardback of the barstool, she closed her eyes. The living Tablo of Murphy’s Law that had been the last four days played uninterrupted in her mind. The cancelled flight, followed by the rebooking, subsequent delay of that new flight, and the landing in Chicago fifteen hours after she’d left her house for the airport. The baggage claim conveyor belt filled with everyone else’s bags, but hers. The unapologetic airline worker explaining that her suitcase was still in San Diego and wouldn’t arrive in Chicago ‘til the next day. The fire alarm going off at three a.m., in the hotel where she slept naked because there was no place to buy clothes and toiletries near her hotel at one a.m., when she’d finally arrived. The ten-hour days of staff grumbling as they reviewed documents with her and their muttered not-quite under their breath insults at each of her questions.

This week sucked. She let out a heavy breath. At least, tonight was her last night here. If there wasn’t a repeat of Monday, this time tomorrow she’d sit on the well-loved couch in her living room, a bowl of popcorn on her lap, and Uncle Fester, her six-year-old pug, curled beside her.

            “Is this seat taken?” a deep rumble of a voice asked.

            Lucy blinked. “Ah?” It was part question and part gapping as she took in the man standing beside her, a duffle flung over his shoulder and his large hands resting on the barstool beside her.

            The corners of his lips raised in a charming smile, disarming her shock. “Mind if I sit with you?” he asked, a glint of mischievous daring sparked in his eyes.

            A tiny flip somersaulted in her belly. “Sure,” she said.

            His tall, lean body slipped into the chair beside her, slinging his green duffle onto the back of the chair. The blended aroma of ocean and fresh citrus wafting off him coiled around them as they sat.

            “So, what brings you to Chicago?” His words closing her mouth just as she was about to say something.

            What is he doing? Lucy’s head cocked to the side. A beat passed before she answered, “Business. Tonight’s my last night here.” Her gaze turned to the rows of alcohol bottles lining the mirrored shelf above the bar. 

            “What do you do?” He waved to get the bartender’s attention.

            Lucy’s manicured fingers tapped on the smooth surface of the bar top. “Healthcare.”

“Healthcare. Impressive.” His brows ticked up. “You give off boss energy, so I’d imagine you’re something important.” The heat of his gaze trailed down her body replacing the wine flush with a creeping blush crawling up her neck.

“I do quality control,” she said, twisting towards him, her red pencil skirt inching to her midthigh. It tingled where she knew his stare landed. She tugged her skirt down.

Leaning against the bar, his toned forearms were on full display in his short sleeved pale gray button up shirt. “Quality control is very sexy,” he said, his voice reaching an even lower and more rumbly octave than what she thought was possible.

She snorted.

His grin deepened. “What, you don’t agree?”

The bartender appeared taking his drink order and buying her time to ponder his question. Of course, she didn’t agree. There was nothing attractive about the administrator that came in telling you all the things you weren’t doing right. The frowns of staff as she walked through the front door of each clinic this week solidified that. There was nothing sexy about quality control and nothing sexy about Lucy. The riding up pencil skirt aside, her boxy blazer hung on the back of her chair and boring white button up blouse with its tiny stain from where she’d dribbled her tea earlier today did not scream “sexy”.

He ordered an IPA. The foamy beer placed in front of him as the bartender walked away. Wrapping his hands around the pint glass, he swiveled in his chair facing her. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Nobody finds the woman coming in and telling them everything they are doing is wrong, sexy.” She scrunched up her face.

“I do.” He arched his right brow. “The sexiness of a smart, confident woman guiding me in how to do things better is undeniable.”

What? A disbelieving smile popped on her face. Was this happening? Was he for real?

“You say that, but I’m sure if you had a woman like that you’d grumble and call her a nag.” She picked up her wine, sipping it before spinning back towards the bar.

Following her movement, he twisted facing forward. Their gazes meeting in the mirror in front of them.

Raising his glass, he halted midair, his smile slanted with defiance. “If I did do something as boneheaded as that, I’d like to think I’d realize how stupid I was and beg for forgiveness.”

She rolled her eyes. “So, what brings you to Chicago,” she inquired, deciding to play along with his little flirty game.

“Pleasure.”

Oh, dear! The langued pronunciation of his words vibrated through her. Lucy crossed and uncrossed her legs, trying to fight the sensation spreading through her.

“That’s nice,” she almost gulped, the breathy quality of her voice seeming to steal her ability to speak.

The wickedness in his smirk broadened. “Indeed.”

Lucy tucked her dark hair behind her ears, crimson kissing her cheeks. When was the last time someone had hit on her like this at a bar? When was the last time the warmth of someone’s stare swept over her like this? When was the last time her temperature rose like this just at the timbre of someone’s voice? Not since Justin and her had first started dating two years ago.

Lifting her glass to her lips, she finished her drink.

“May I buy you another?” he offered as she placed her now empty glass down.

Looking between his grinning face and her empty glass, she shook her head. “No. Sorry. I have a boyfriend, but thanks.”

“A boyfriend?” He leaned back in his chair, fingers threading through his thick chestnut hair. “That’s disappointing.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find a single lady here to buy a drink for.” She motioned to the almost empty bar. The only other patrons a table of three suited men sitting in the corner with draft beers on their able.

“That’s not what’s disappointing.” He turned again angling his body to face her, his heat enveloping her. “What’s disappointing is that you have a boyfriend and didn’t realize how sexy you are. Sounds like he’s failing you.”

She gapped.

He went on, “If I was with a woman like you, I’d never want her to question how sexy she is for one minute. I’d never want her to question how I felt about her for a minute.”

The gapping was accompanied by the actual hitching of breath. Lucy thought that was only something in bad romance novels, not real life. Men didn’t say these things. They didn’t do these things.

Placing cash on the bar to tip the bartender, she got up. “Thanks. I appreciate that.” She grabbed her blazer and purse.

He touched her arm halting her steps. “I hope he realizes how lucky he is.”

Her eyes flicked to where his palm rested on her arm, goosebumps peppering her skin at his touch. “I think he does,” she assured with a smile.

Saying good night, she strode through the bar. Glancing over her shoulder, she took one last look at him. His mossy green eyes met hers from across the room. After the week she’d had, she allowed that moment to wash over her. The sensation of being wanted left her buzzed or, perhaps, it was the chardonnay. Either way, her cheeks reddened.

Walking from the hotel bar, she headed to the fifth floor and to her room. Opening the door, she kicked off her unfashionable but sensible black pumps. Her bare feet sinking into the sumptuous brown carpet. Tossing her blazer and purse onto the small sofa, the ring tone of her cell filled the room.

“Justin,” she greeted, seeing his name flash on her phone’s screen.

“How’s your week going?” he asked.

“It’s just got better.” She grinned, looking at herself in the mirror. Somehow the white blouse with its lingering tea spots seemed to hug the curves of her breasts and that pencil skirt made her butt pop in just the right way.

“How so?” His tone was playful.

Her mouth opened, but her words ceased with a gentle rapt at her door. “Wait, someone’s at the door.” She shuffled to the door, opening it.

Those mossy green eyes and charming smile that had sat beside her in the bar faced her, his duffle slung over his shoulder and cell phone pressed to his ear. “Lucy.”

“Justin,” she said, her lips quirked up. Yup, it was going to be a good night.