A Fresh Spark (excerpt)

a lil bit of my fiction writing for your Saturday...

The bartender places an old-fashioned on the coaster in front of me and immediately turns to take care of another customer at the far end of the hotel bar. The disappointment I feel is mixed with relief, as the temporary bravery I had built up to perhaps flirt with the cute younger man dissipates. Silly idea, anyway. Right? I mean, I know I’m not bad looking, but I’m certainly not the twenty-something sexpot I once was. More than that, ever since my husband and I split, I have this sense that people can smell it on me. Eau de divorcé.

Experimentally, I run my finger along the edge of the glass the way I’ve seen women do in movies as a seduction tactic. Only, I accidentally knock the orange slice off the rim and right onto my lap, stamping my silk dress with citrus.

“Ope!” I exclaim, as if I’ve suddenly become my midwestern college roommate, dontcha know. I glance over at the couple a few spots down from me and throw them my best how embarrassing, am I right? smile. It comes off extremely doofy, but it’s just as well; they’re so enamored with each other that they don’t even notice. I feel irrationally rejected.

I toss the orange wedge back into my drink, because who cares? I’m a mom; I have a high threshold for disgust, and this barely approaches the line. Finally, I take a sip and damn, I don’t expect it to be this good, not even with the $17 price tag that has become so commonplace for cocktails regardless of what kind of establishment serves them. This is worrisome because I promised myself I would only have one. I came to New York for a work conference, not to develop a drinking problem.

I also came to New York to get out of my post-divorce rut. Perhaps to do some shopping and begin to assemble a wardrobe that reflects who I am now (Hence the sexy dress. I am a sexy dress person now!)

And, very tentatively, to dip my toe back into the waters of… not the dating pool, but potentially the get-railed-so-hard-I-forget-how-much-much-life-blows-for-a-few-moments pool? Yes, that. I would very much like to swan dive into that particular pool, and I know my now ex-husband has already done at least two flying leaps off the high dive (before we split) as well as a sort of synchronized swimming routine at a sex party sometime after, if the soccer-dad gossip network is accurate. And it is always accurate.

I sigh. It’s not a competition, of course, but I would love for it to be my turn to do something scandalous for once. Our girls are grown now and out of the house, just in time for us to break their hearts with a decision that should have been made at least 10 years ago.

The shame of the failure washes over me anew, as it usually does when I’m idle, and I reach for the drink again, but my hand stops. I’ve never had a problem with alcohol, but something still tells me it’s not a good idea to get drunk right now. Not just because I’m in the city by myself and in an emotionally fragile place, but because it felt like a knee-jerk reaction, and I’ve sworn off being controlled by jerks.

I lift my hand to flag down cute younger bartender, but he’s deep in conversation with that other guest. Seemingly someone who didn’t have to work up the nerve to chat with him, and who could probably pull off the drink-rim-finger-drag with the ease of a Bond girl. Before I can crane my neck to get a good look at her, just to rub salt in the wound of my own failings, a voice from behind me causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end.

“Aww, don’t tell me you’re leaving already, Belle.”

I know that voice. I know it so well. Too well.

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