Eyes Up, Jaw Down.

The bartender understood perfectly that I am the only woman he shall not crave for, for he didn’t want to lose my weekly drunken session of confessions. I didn’t want to start lying to him either. Our meetings have been mostly weekly, not before eleven or so. I didn’t like walking into that blues bar with them couples sober enough to notice me or them solo men unlucky enough not to have found a lady companion for the night. I’d slip in around midnight, take my place on the bar and exchange a nostalgic hello with the bartender.

The bartender also understood perfectly that I love fooling myself that I am not a bourbon addict, and thus pours me martini and vodka in V-shaped glasses for the first hour or so. It doesn’t take long before I am devoured from those cheap perfume drinks and I give in to bourbon.

For some reason, I was dressed in a silver dress that night. I gave in to the flapper inside of me mercilessly. And what are my nights really but a series of give-ins?

I didn’t spend that much time at my usual bar seat. For when Tom Waits started disciplining his piano, with his half dimmed eyes trying to shield his irides from his intensive smoking habits, I was sitting at his feet on the glossy floor. My head was tilted on the leg of the black drunken piano and my thighs were spread on the floor. The whole idea was to stare at him from that angle, my eyes pulled upwards, my jaw dropped downwards. His face through his instrumental piano hands pretended I was not there. Without looking back at the bar, I could tell the bartender was jealous. However, through the V-shaped bourbon trip and the helplessness at Tom’s feet; he showed me what it is to love a man.