What Passes For Flirting

The sun beams down into the enclosed terrace and everything smells like salty sweat. The clink of glasses echoes loudly in the heat. My head hurts. I should be drinking water but instead I’m sipping a gin and tonic while the boys nurse flat beers. A fly lazily buzzes around my lefty ear. I want to swat it but I’m afraid of my lifting my arms and revealing the two trenches of sweat that are gathering there. When did I last shave? The waitress comes by with baskets of peanuts –who wants peanuts in this heat?- but when she spots our still nearly full glasses she swishes away in search of more avid drinkers. I pick up my coaster and try to fan myself but it’s soggy and does little more than flop, especially since I refuse to lift my arms from my sides. I put it down and begin to tear it in to damp strips, carefully piling my boozy confetti on the table’s edge.

M. gets up. I don’t turn my head but I hear his jeans peel off the sticky chair as he heads toward the men’s room. He moves as if under water, fighting through the humid air. I feel as though I’m sitting in an old dish cloth. Everything is damp and smelly.

S. leans over and swats at my coaster pile with his mitt.

“Sexually frustrated eh?”

“Careful Irish, you almost sound Canadian,” I reply with a shrug, carefully avoiding the question though my smirk says it all.

“Poo face,” he retorts.

I counter, “scatophile”.

We’re flirting again, or at least passes for flirting these days, but I refuse to rise to the bait. We’ve been down this road before; it ended as it should. S. was right, great friends usually don’t make great lovers. But…after a few drinks the air is ripe with possibility or maybe it’s just sweat.

S. leans in close. I feel his warm breath near my ear. The fly finally backs off. And then I’m falling backwards as S. deftly topples my chair, catching me by the wrist moments before I dash my brains out on the concrete.

“Ow asshole. That hurt”.

I kick him in the shin. He’s still holding on to my wrist. I notice that his fingers are almost long enough to encircle it twice. His free hand rubs his leg.

“What are you, five?” I snap.

“Guess that would make you a pedophile,” he smirks.

“Don’t flatter yourself. That was a stupid alcohol-induced mistake.”

He leans in again, even closer this time. I clutch the bottom of my stool, braced for another tumble but instead S. merely brushes a stray hair out of my face.

“Maybe not that stupid.”

Our eyes meet.

“Fuck. Have you guys seen the washrooms here? They are rank. Five stalls and only one flushes. Not that you really need to flush piss but…”

S. drops my wrist and stands. He turns to M.

“What do you say we move on to somewhere with better bathrooms and friendlier service?”

M. nods. I’m tempted but…

“You guys go ahead. I think I’m done”

I fumble through my purse with sweaty hands searching for my wallet. S. smiles as instead I bring up a fistful of my shredded coaster.