It looked like she was still staring at him, but he couldn’t tell; the pub was dark, the art deco lamps emitting a dull, sickly glow that seemed to hang in the air like a fog.
The manager had probably made the place like this, he thought, to attract the kind of crowd that was here tonight. To attract the kind of people who were always here and therefore probably didn’t need attracting. But it was obvious, and thus a failure, not in the least because he couldn’t tell if this girl, the lounge chair about to engulf her, was giving him her attention, trying to communicate non-verbally with him, or not. He wanted to know, because he was already beginning to fall in love.
Rodney, the friend that had brought him here, the friend that was always here, was deep in conversation with a mysterious girl of his own. He tapped Rodney on the shoulder. He was going to ask if he too falls in love with every girl who gives him the slightest amount of attention, irrespective of whether he is actually attracted to her. When Rodney turned around, he gestured not to worry, sorry he’d interrupted him. But then he worried that this girl across the room who may or may not have been checking him out had seen him rudely interrupt his friend.
The clack of the pool balls punctuated the loud murmur and the folk music. He hated this place. It was weird. He hated to think what nightmarish tricks it would play on him if he was drunk. The tiles were on the inside of the wall instead of the outside and there wasn’t enough lighting to tell if you were being sized up or even communicated to or not. Plus, all the furniture was stacked on the one side, put there as though the place had just reopened after being closed for 40 years and they hadn’t bothered to rearrange the furniture, or update it.
And all the chairs were upholstered in ugly faded orange or brown vinyl or some itchy, flannel-like material. Or both. They looked comfortable, but in the way well-worn clothes look comfortable. Then there was the
The girl still appeared to be staring at him. When he glanced over he saw her nodding at what her friend was saying, but her eyes were definitely, definitely directed at him.
He turned around, up, to see if maybe she was gazing at a television, but there wasn’t one. The only TV in the room, playing some music video stylicatically unrelated to the music coming from the speakers, was above the bar. He started to get restless. It was impossible to see what she was looking at, absolutely impossible. He’d need something more from her if she was serious. But he didn’t want
Lead Igloo
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2 Comments
No one slaughters Australian bar culture quite like Lead Igloo!.
Not sure if a piece of text dropped off, or if you need a hyphen or soemthing to indicate it’s been cut off mid flow ” but in the way well-worn clothes look comfortable. Then there was the”
Thanks Marc – re/ text cutting off, done on purpose, but obviously not something I thought through.
And yes, pub culture on the mind at the moment.