prose in progress, part 4
2008
As if she had a tag on her forehead, reading: Please, do chat me up. As spring progressed, she slowly started to recover from the after-effects of separation. Resolved in one thing only. Not to get involved with anybody. Maybe this brought it forth. Almost every man, single or not, started to at least notice her. It was not unpleasant. From harmless compliments to outright improper suggestions – it gave her the feeling back, to be female again. Even complete strangers on the street would look at her, noticing whatever it was she had now and lacked the years before. She was starting to enjoy this. Playing games. Suggesting availability only to withdraw quickly, before flirting could start. At the same time wondering, why this was so. Was she radiating some invisible stuff, chemicals influencing the hormonal dispostion of men, maybe? At times she wished she could store this attention for dreary days to come. All of it happening at once was a bit much. Acquaintances or passers-by which until now had registered with her just as humans without noticing their sex, if she had noticed them at all, suddely tried in various ways to get her attention. Sometimes she almost burst into laughter. Some guys really were clumsy. Endearingly clumsy. On the other hand, some were horribly distasteful. All in all, it was a rather new experience to her. As long as she could remember back, she was either falling in love, in love or recovering from the effects of love ending. The same applied if you switched the terms falling in, being in and losing love in this sentence with looking for, enjoying and missing sex, she noticed. And was there a difference?
But to be unattached and looking at others hunting her was definitely fun. Until a friend whom she knew to have a soft spot for her for years, tried his luck once more. At this point she drew a line. She wasn’t going to hurt this nice boy. Not again. This incident put a halt to her newly found lightness of being. She ceased to play games all together. The tag on her forehead miraculously vanished. She settled back into her usual spot of watching what was going on around her without taking much part in it. Dividing her time between ever increasing job duties and her favourite pasttime bridge, she relaxed back into a routine. Temperatures rose, hence the golf really started up again for the season, drawing her attention mainly to work. Her bridge throttled as per usual during late spring, receding into its regular summer low. Long daylight hours lenghtening her working hours, also. Even if she did make it on time for the start of club competitions, it took her nine or so hands to properly arrive at the table. By which time almost a third of the game had passed her by. In addition to her limited skills, that robbed her of the satisfaction she extracted from the game when she could concentrate better. But whenever possible, she went to the bridge club anyways, since she enjoyed the company of the card riffling gang. Apart from the odd visit to her sports studio, this was her only way to break the working routine and meet other people than customers or colleagues.
One sunny Tuesday in June, this was exactly her plan for the evening. Dumping her car, quickly changing into a pair of jeans and off she went to catch the bus. As she had the next day off – it was a regular weekday, but to her it felt like Saturday night because she usually worked on weekends – she planned on maybe having a drink or two at the club after the tournament. If anyone else was into it, too. Which was normally the case. Someone always wanted to play a few hands more. Or just have a chat and a beer. The evening developed nicely and according to plan. Her regular partner joined her for a little team competition on four tables after the tournament proper before he made his excuses. He had another big trial on early next day; a band of drug dealers were wanting for their just sentences. But some other members were in the mood to continue play. As the club emptied, there were seven pleople left in total, already counting Wolfgang, who runs the bar and hadn’t played all evening, so they were but one short for a little team fight. So they decided to take turns at one table, playing a couple of hands just for the fun of it. Qucikly, the pairs were drawn together with the surplus three respectively watching those in action. Not without the usual kiebitz wisecracks and of course regularly topping up everybodys glass. They all were merry and each had a good time. The group, apart from herself and Wolfgang, the bartender, featured: Max, a mathematician working for the government but presently on a sabbatical year with lots of time at his hands. Best described as highly intelligent but lacking somewhat in the social intelligence department. Bony apperances, yet quite handsome, his outfit amused her very often: always missing a belt loop or two or wearing sandals over socks or else some other minor outfit flaw. He was a friendly guy who never meant any harm but often managed to say something insensitive. Carl, a tall and slender, quite energetic man of maybe thirtyfive. Utterly broke, his slate behind the bar was getting marked too closely for another drink to be put on. He was the worst businessperson one could possibly imagine. This evening talking about yet another project that had failure written all over it. He was enthusiastic about it although everyone was trying to talk him out of it. Cole, sweet Cole, was the one with a crunch on her. Around fourty, he was a softspoken, overweight ex-staffer for the British Army in Berlin who now taught English. He knew many a romantic ballad by heart and she loved listening to his impeccable, almost accent free and well modulated word flow whenever he did her the favour of reciting. Quite amazing for someone born and bred in Edinburgh. Joe, one of the club’s top players who had done her the favour of pointing her ex-boyfriends new flame out to her a few weeks earlier. Because of that but also in general, she deemed him likeable. And then there was Srinivas, called Sri for short, a very handsome man of indian descent but his flawless, slightly accented language suggested that he grew up somewhere in Germany. He was close to fifty, petite and of exquisite structure. Not enough backside and a bit too slender for her liking, though. But she had to confess: With his graying hair and tanned skin he was a looker. No one among them took notice of his Turret Syndrome anymore, they all were used to it. Whenever Sri concentrated over a bid or a trick, he managed to be absolutely still. But in the pauses between, his hands sometimes shot forth erratically or his head violently yanked to one side, usually accompanied by a short cough. He also played on the clubs top team on federal league level.
In general, those present were far better, more experienced players than her. None of them would ever, not even for a split second, consider her as a partner in any competition. But no one cared on evenings like this. They were of a strictly social nature, designed for having fun, enjoying the game and each others company without any real consideration for scores. Other than the best possible with whoever one was teamed up with. Often, the more experienced players gave hints for game improvements, on other nights, tales of the olden days were told or glorious results recalled. And many a time, the inexperienced players rose to the occasion, doing really well. In short, this was why she loved this club: the friendly atmosphere, the sportsmanship and good company. Plus, they knew how to have a party, too. Real people and almost all to her liking, save for one or two idiots. But among a group of about a hundred and thirty one will always find one or two disagreeable people.
floatsome 