Film Noir, Scene One
It was a scene from Out of the Past. Literally. Very noir.
It’s a little bar that has quite an Aroma. A last stand for habits that die hard. He wasn’t a regular in the usual sense; just there on the first Tuesday of every month at 6. He drank alone. Just one drink. Nursed it for an hour. He drank not to forget. To remember. An indulgence that was easily categorized in ‘what the hell’. It was worth that. She was worth it.
She walked into the bar, slowly, deliberately. She wore a flowing black dress, pearls and matching earrings. Hair just so. Makeup subtle, but to impress. She didn’t need much; she was already picture perfect and she walked with an air of confidence. Lithe. Sultry. A walking contradiction.
She sat at the far end of the bar and ordered a drink. He watched her as if for the first time; because in this little bit of theatre in this place at this time in both their lives, it was. The past would be set aside, but not forgotten; if just for tonight. Beyond that was beyond that.
Their eyes met at a distance and he felt a shiver. It was a true power exchange. She felt it too. She lived for the rush. He gave her this power; a woman likes to be noticed. And she returned it gaze for gaze. Playful. Hungry. She knew her effect on him; on herself. And although it wasn’t her intension, he wasn’t intimidated.
She motioned for the waitress and asked what he was drinking and it soon arrived on little paper napkin. Overt flirtation? Obviously. A peace offering? Perhaps. Or is a drink sometimes just a drink? She crossed the room and eyes followed. She paused and sat down without introduction.
Film Noir is about heroes and treachery. The truth distilled through circumstance, opportunity, self-interest and eventually, despair. There are few winners. But in the end, is it not for the journey? That’s what they told themselves, even though the little voices challenged it. These two were well aware of the normal lives that their friends lived; at least what most people consider normal.
But at the core, what brought her to the table was a desire to dance on the edge, to see what was on the other side of the mountain. That’s what brought them together, tore them apart, and back together and so on in a cycle that carried them along. That’s where life is lived. Like punching a guy two heads taller. Or pulling down the curtains to make a dress for the ball. The opportunity to feel alive while those around settle for cathartic numbness.
She smiled. They toasted. They sat in silence for a while, speaking to each other only in face ticks; occasionally reaching to stir their drinks. Tonight he’d break tradition and have a second.
The end credits? If you allow it, every story has a different ending. And this one was being written over martinis and a moon that was full every month.