Bordeaux and Paris provide excellent images for a novel, and trust me; I took advantage of those settings several years ago during the early writing of my book, described as psychological suspense. I wrote freehand in a spiral notebook, sipping espresso at the cafés and brasseries, and thankfully, the French waiters allowed me to write as long as I wanted, as long as I didn’t order a hamburger and fries. “Mon dieu!” While that experience provided some special flavor, simple settings in America provide me with inspiration when I least expect it.
I needed to wind down, drink a martini or two and listen to a cool three-piece jazz band while enjoying the ambiance of a classy bar. Yeah, a classy cigar bar with leather chairs, wide screens, smoke conditioners, and ridiculously attractive people. So, I sat down on a couch and watched the stunning cocktail servers come to each party to take their orders, whether cigars or drinks. But my evening started out warmly because I came alone, and so she found it easy to sit down on the couch perilously close to me. My lungs vacuumed her perfume down to my diaphragm then held the scent as long as possible, forcing another hungry breath through my begging nostrils, all of which was accomplished without obviously staring at the fishnet stockings lucky enough to caress her long legs. But, she knew what she was doing.
“Good evening sir. May I get you a drink or a cigar?”
Her smile immediately disarmed my fear of falling down, so I smiled warmly back. “Sure, I’ll have a dirty Vodka martini and a Macanudo Gold label.”
“Excellent. I’ll be back in a few.”
It was now time to take in her walk toward the humidor, without fear of embarrassment, but something told me she expected the stare. Her long legs were a piece of art, and it was disappointing to see them end inside her skirt, but the rhythm of her hips, while in sync with the music, still made me hold on to my chair for support. I thought I was recovered when she returned with my cigar and martini and again, sat next to me, smiling.
“Long, medium or short draw sir?”
“Medium, and you can call me Carson.”
“Interesting name. Sounds British I guess, but certainly manly.”
“Love your choice of words, so I must ask your name as well.”
“Yana”
She cut my cigar to my specifications, then I placed it in my mouth and puffed while she lit it with her almost flame – thrower lighter, and my blues met her greens.
“My guess is that you’re of Russian heritage although, I am thinking probably a ballet dancer background and a graduate PhD student as well.”
“Ah, yes, you’re right, almost. Russian parents and a former ballerina, but I’m actually a third year law student. But tell me, how did you guess? I am American born and raised. Apple pie, baseball and all that stuff. Although, large amounts of Vodka are my preferred drink with hot dogs. Does that give me away?” Some customers waved to her for more drinks so she got up to leave before I could answer. I couldn’t believe she sat with me to enjoy a conversation while lighting my cigar.
She came back some time later and asked, “Carson, do you need another drink?”
“I don’t need one, but I’ll take one. By the way, it was your high cheekbones and a few other characteristics I’ve learned over the years. And also, please bring me about 25 of those white napkins.”
She looked at me with a bewildered look, and then returned with a pile of napkins and my second martini. I suddenly began writing on each napkin, filling each one, front and back, the words flowing from my brain to my fingers like a fire hose, and I didn’t stop until each napkin was filled with my scribbles and I completely forgot my surroundings. And that included the Russian goddess with drinks.
She returned, and this time sat directly in front of me on the table, her legs crossed daintily but my brain was disengaged, my heart was jumping out of my chest.
“Carson, may I ask what are you doing writing on all those napkins?”
“Sure Yana. I’m writing a novel and I guess I became inspired all of a sudden and had to write before the thoughts vanished forever.”
“Ah, I see. May I see what you wrote on one of them?”
I hesitated, sure that she would think my words would be junk, but after a minute or so, I picked up the one I thought would be the best. At least I hoped so. She picked it up and read it, then smiled widely.
“The sleek black dress clung eagerly to her lithe body, forcing his eyes to drink her in completely”
“Oh my god, I love this!”
“That was you my dear. You were my model and inspiration tonight.”
“So nice. When I was dating my husband, he used to write me poems, but since we were married, he’s stopped.
She looked at me with those Caribbean Sea eyes and we connected, both longing for something in each other’s past, but knowing our futures would not include each other, but the experience of the evening was golden, etched in our memories of pleasure.
Give me your full name, and I will anxiously await your novel and hopefully this phrase will be in it, and I will remember how you wrote it.
“Yes, it will be in my book, ‘To Love with Hate.’” You can bet the sentence will be in there. My name is SRCarson.”
SRC