G is for Gerry (Men of ALPHAbet Mountain) - Page 4

By the time I got to Sergio’s, the light was growing dimmer sooner than it had been as the summer wound down toward fall. I was looking forward to the fall. Fall in the mountains was prettier than anywhere else and much more fun than the impending winter that came after.

Going in, I noticed that the place was pretty packed, which I should have expected for a Friday evening, but even still, there was a stool open at the corner of the bar. Hurrying over, I sat down and made eye contact with the bartender. He acknowledged me and grabbed a glass, heading over closer to me.

“The local,” I said. “And fries.”

“On it,” he said. “Do you want poutine or regular fries this time?”

“Are you making Dina’s Diner poutine yet?” I asked, grinning.

“She won’t give us the recipe,” Arnie said. “So, no.”

“Regular is fine.”

Arnie nodded and walked back to the tap, filling the glass with my beer and bringing it back to me before heading into the kitchen. I knew some folks still had trouble with my accent sometimes, but Arnie never did. I came to Sergio’s every day when I first moved in, mostly just to be around people, but Arnie knew my drink preferences. As a fellow Canadian, he was well aware of some of the creature comforts I would be missing.

I sat in the corner, nursing the beer for a long time, watching the crowd of folks come in, eat, drink and leave. A few people I recognized from town came in and waved over at me, to which I waved back. A couple people I knew sat at a booth, and I watched as the waitress came over to take their order.

When the waitress finished with them, she moved to the next booth over, where a pair of ladies sat, crutches pushed up against the wall. I cocked my head to one side. I wasn’t sure I could recognize either of them, but the older of the two seemed familiar in a way. I couldn’t quite place it, so I chalked it up to one of those people you just see around town because you tend to be in the same area at the same time occasionally.

The younger of the two really caught my eye. She was beautiful, with sad, somber eyes that gave her an air of melancholy that I knew so well. Whether they were actual feelings she had or ones I was projecting onto her I couldn’t tell. She was sipping on a soda, using the straw while the drink stayed on the table. She had a platter in front of her, one I recognized immediately as the taster’s platter, the one I bought when I first moved to Ashford.

It contained a little bit of everything. Pizza, wings, pasta, cannoli, you name it—if Sergio’s was known for it, a tiny bit of it was on the tray. It was designed for newcomers or people who were indecisive.

My eyes kept coming back to the girl. She looked young. She was talking with the girl across from her, who on second look seemed like she resembled the other. Both had big eyes, though the older one’s eyes were a dark brown. Like chocolate.

Her hair tumbled down on either shoulder in ringlets, light brown with tints of blonde. She looked effortlessly sexy. It was one of those looks that were meant for stardom. Television or film, she would have fit right in with either. She looked like she was sad, but maybe it was just the size of her almond-shaped eyes that made her look that way. At any rate, I wanted to sweep her up and hold her close, tell her everything would be okay.

What would make me have that impulse? What would keep me so transfixed by her as she picked her way through the fries and wings on the plate? There were dozens of people in the bar, dozens of good-looking women at that. However there I was, hopelessly locked on this young woman, the way her bottom lip pushed out in a soft, supple angle and the way her nose wrinkled when she sniffed the buffalo sauce.

Something about her was entrancing. I shook my head. I couldn’t spend that much time staring at her. She was young. Too young. She looked like she might not even be twenty-one, and I was already thirty-one. If she caught me staring, I’d just be the creepy older man who was gawking at her. I needed to find something else to look at.

Thankfully, a game was on, and I forced myself to stare at it, to try to figure out what was going on. It was baseball, a Cubs game. I knew they had a minor league affiliate not too far away, and most people in the town followed them as their hometown team. Coming from Montreal, I didn’t have one. Baseball moved away when I was young and never replaced the Expos.

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