“Allen Jones”
Nov 30, 2019It had been five years to the day since she walked out on him. Now, she was sitting at the bar at Allen Jones, sipping her Manhattan, waiting for an old coworker to finish her shift, hoping he didn’t pop into their old haunt. Her new boy toy encouraged her to face her past. She didn’t know if she was ready for it, but here she was, pulled in on the anniversary of the day she ended the great relationship of her life.
He was supposed to be The One. He was for the first couple of years. Dinners on Restaurant Row, jet setting around the globe, keeping each other warm on cold winter nights in their cozy Astoria apartment.
They met at Allen Jones a decade earlier. She was a hostess. He was her manager. Forbidden love at first sight. She’d watch him across the restaurant on those late Saturday nights when he’d get drunk with Allen. She admired how easy it looked for him to shoot the shit with their legendary boss. He’d wait outside as she finished her cigarette and would open the cab door for her. He would flash that smile of his, wishing her a good night, and she’d put her hands down her panties on the ride home, dreaming about the house and kids and dog they would have someday.
It started with her hand lightly brushing his shoulder. He’d startle, and she would giggle and touch his hand. She would wait at the table in the corner until all the customers were gone and he looked up. She would move to the bar and he would pour them shots of Red Label. Years of dance and gymnastics eased her over the not-to-code bar and she’d take him in her hands and mouth, the knees of her black pants stained with dirty dishwater and spilled liquor. They would make out in the cab all the way to her ratty apartment across the street from Coney Island Baby.