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<i>When your head and your heart are saying the same thing, listen.</I>
<br></br>
Right now, both his head and his heart decidedly wanted: ice cream, ecstasy, a double double scotch, a badass turquoise blue necktie, an Edward Hopper, a fireplace in which to place it over, a quasi-girlfriend with a side ponytail, a solid tan pickup truck, world peace, a perfect thesaurus for all occasions, and a black Scotty dog he could call Terry. This list was work-in-progressed while Levi Marcus, a one-application social stigma boy-man, slumped deeper into a drudgey, navy corduroy couch. He was cushioned on all sides by a disassociated "bar atmosphere", the social-lounge-and-chill particular kind that Levi normally had nothing to do with, first of all, and second, just faintly reminded him of a tumbleweed and straw-in-the-mouth Texas. Semblances of comfort groves —wooded expanses? non-seductive communities of trees, shrubs, and English accented squirrels? Flying squirrels? No.— cultivated themselves in rich amber to deep royal blue, lens-refracting ambience at various locales about the establishment, waterhole, what-have-you. These environmental collectives were knitted close; each occupant was a tree with branches interlaced with the others of its ecosystem party. Bird-like gossip needn’t have to hop-hop far from one limb to the next. The lights overhead illuminated brightly their top halves, leaving roots and stemware beneath in shadow. A group stood, grew, off the side of the bar, another copse surrounded two high table tops to his far right, and a third, swayed and bobbed about a cloister of low comfy chairs to his other side.
<br></br>
Levi and his velvet corduroy, navy slump-couch took up six or so feet of the gold and cream washcloth-sponged back wall. A lamp with an opaque, ultramarine canvas shade and rustic mustard, full-bellied, ceramic body sat on a small end table on either side, their combined, pointless glow faintly fanned across the forearms of mottled black and grey Levi Marcus sweater material. Bottom lip drawer-closed between nudging teeth, circular glass cylinder edge set with routine accuracy on belt loop on against hipbone, the solitary man felt it perfectly fine to be the lone bonsai of the Brighton nightlife park, despite him being much too large for such a petite association. He gazed down at the drink contents in hand, shrugging off a short-lived chill that toed up his spine. It may or may not have been apparent that he’d not been drinking long that night. The only indicators of his telling sobriety were the state of his disobedient hair (<i>properly</i> contained beneath the beanie he presently wore) and a careful, but tired, physical demeanor: one that could have clearly enunciated warning signs of “severe hermit out for air, not shits and giggles and <i>friendship</i>.”
<br></br>
He looked up to see a young man striding toward him, and at first, all Levi could wonder was what “grove” the fellow uprooted from and why hadn’t he been paying attention to observe this new behavior? Levi’s brown creased a little in confusion as he came to this bizarre understanding that it was his own “bon” that the man was advancing to. Even stranger, he took out from his coat pocket (a not-a-bad-looking sienna leathered jacket with very soft trim) a worn cardboard box that Levi couldn’t place the name of until it was dropped, smackingly, onto the stout coffee table in front of him. It was alarming: this absolutely sudden, uncalled for and quite presumptuous action threatened the sanctity of Levi’s self-attained, one-man culture here. <i> “Watch those for me, son,”</i> the grit-lilted, English accented, quasi-gentleman due to the quality of jacket, said to him as he pointed, expressly, down to the card box and moved off, maybe to the mens room, Levi didn’t know. The American’s furrowed forehead kept its wrinkled puzzlement above his river stone gaze. What did this mean, exactly? Was one of the mini-forests going to Macbeth their way over to his territory for a card game? On his couch? Were they going to pick him up and move him from their way? Where? Or maybe they’d sooner invite him to, what, play along? With. . . wait, who brought cards to a bar? Weren’t drinking games saved for pre-gaming? Or did the people here pre-game <i>at</i> the bar, which would demean pre-gaming altogether. But then, it’s not like Levi had in mind to get drunk <i>before</i> he arrived either, in order to save money or whatnot. He had prepared in other ways.
<br></br>
He should get up, you know, leave. They were the bigger party, whichever group it was. Or. . . well, shit, what if the man wasn’t from any of the groves?? What did <i>that</i> mean? He leant forward, gnawing on the inside of his right cheek as he g;anced about, cautiously so he didn’t appear too ultimately freaked out. Just as he placed the empty glass down on the table, in order to fish out from his own discarded coat the companionable bottle of Jack Daniels, he spotted an Ivory-billed Woodpecker, sweeping from one copse to the next. There was a brief blonde shock of drawn-attention just before it become blocked by six foot shoulder heights. Then she slipped out from the other side, at a random exit, providing plaid and an oversized leather bomber to the bird-watching identification card in his mind. As soon as she was identified as the familiar Isabelle from school, moreover, as soon as he accidentally met her eye with his speculating observance, the male on the couch quickly dropped his gaze, pushed the lip of his black-knit head-cover down farther over his eyes with abashed affectation. <i>Now</i> what was he supposed to do? Had she recognized him? What was the probability that she hadn’t? What was the probability that she hadn’t even seen him? Levi twisted off the bottom cap and filed half the glass in front him. What was the probability that he’d get drunk by the time she fluttered over to his velvet corduroy, navy blue slump-couch, ask him what he was doing here, if he was alone, why he was alone and if she could wear his hat? He tossed down the whiskey like a shot and poured himself another in quick succession. </p>[/dohtml]

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<div style="width: 460px; border-left: 4px solid #mediumturquoise; padding: 15px; text-align: justify; font-family: garamond; font-size: 11px; -webkit-border-radius: 30px; -moz-border-radius: 30px; letter-spacing: 1px; line-height:110%;"><font class="pretty">TO AN ONLOOKING BYSTANDER, </font>it might’ve seemed as though Isabelle Sheridan was in the habit of losing people. Only an hour earlier, she’d arrived, bright-eyed and head bobbing to a tune it seemed played only for her, at the arm of an upperclassman who’d introduced himself two days earlier as <i>Michael</i>. Michael – or Mike, if she liked it like that – who played polo, and pool and a <i>mean</i> bari sax solo, if you asked him to very nicely, which she immediately had. (Much to her delight, in case you wanted to know, he’d done a few sweet jazz riffs, which segued smoothly into the melody of some two-decade-old song that Isabelle recognized in a heartbeat but whose name she could <i>never quite</i> remember.) Having enchanted the lady with his brassy beats, he took a chance and flashed a smile, offered an invitation to a bar maybe that night ? She’d shaken her head : no can do, Romeo, but he wasn’t shot down in flames. She was far too inclined to keep company whenever possible and a shot or two nearby for whenever the feeling struck her, to turn an offer down like that. No, she just had <i>rehearsal</i>, that day, then the next, but the day-after-‘morrow would be peachy keen.
<br><br>
Fast forward two days, six hours, and a shot of tequila later and you’d have them entering a bar, she, attempting a joke about a chicken and a corset that most people probably wouldn’t have understood, and that even more people wouldn’t have found all that funny. Mike-with-the-sax tried to laugh for her sake, but he sadly fell in with those who didn’t understand; Isabelle didn’t mind all that much. He’d managed to muster a laugh, which meant he’d genuinely tried, and really, isn’t that all that counts ? It’s what they used to say on television, anyway. She’d know; she’d watched more than her fair share of television, what with having to keep up with <i>important things</i>, such as the next time Garfield was going to ship Nermal to Abu Dhabi and whether or not House had yet slept with Cuddy (the answers to questions one and two are next Friday, and yes, but you <i>mustn’t</i> tell Isabelle, because she won’t know until Saturday when she catches up on her TiVo).
<br><br>
Now, if trying is what truly matters, then what happened next was entirely forgivable (if it isn’t, we humbly request that you find it in your heart to refrain from condemning Isabelle’s actions anyway). She <i>tried</i> to keep track of her guest for the night, and she <i>tried</i> to stick close, to stop herself from flitting away, and she’d succeeded, for the most part, except for a slip up here and there. ‘Here’ had been when someone had asked her for the time, and she’d happily informed them it was nine-oh-nine, then peered over her shoulder to barely glimpse Mike as he turned around a corner, before sauntering off to catch him just before he was out of sight. ‘There’, however, hadn’t been so lucky a situation.
<br><br>
She’d wanted a drink, and she’d told Mike so, stood up on tiptoe to first mumble it in his ear, then punctuate the request with a prim kiss on the cheek. He’d nodded, granted the concession that he too was quite partial to procuring himself maybe something else. Off to the bar ? <i>Indeed.</i> Getting the drinks was easy; they’d engaged in idle chatter, pleasant banter, chipper prattle until they’d been poured, mixed, and served. Tasting was easy too, both their own, and each other’s, and they’d soon declared the Hangman’s Blood (his), and the Seven-and-Seven (hers) to be better than average, at the very least. The problem only arose when she reached down to the pocket of her over-sized leather jacket, fumbled around for her cell phone and, in the process of finding it, realized that she’d left her wallet at the bar.
<br><br>
If you asked her even now, she’d swear up and down she’d told Mike where she’d wandered off to. If you asked <i>him</i> now, he’d possibly have had too many Irish car bombs to clearly recall (perhaps you’d have better luck in the morning). One way or another though, he’d either been misinformed, had the irresistible urge to use the washroom, or had been whisked away by some arbitrary third party, so that when Isabelle returned, lime green wallet now safely tucked and zipped in her left-hand pocket, he was nowhere to be found. She’d glanced around corners, stood as tall as she could in an attempt to see over the heads and broad shoulders of men taller than she was, even with the boost of her three-inch heels. <i>No dice.</i> Well, <i>shit</i>, she thought, shoulders slumped and she sighed : he’d been pretty cool too.
<br><br>
And so, Mike had been lost (though not for good – he’d be back in business for class on Monday afternoon), and Isa, for her part, was thoroughly disappointed, though the sentiment, it seemed, wasn’t to last for very long. Maybe two-or-three Mississippi’s and a single drink-sip later, during a quick once-over of the bar, a window had opened as that door had shut as a familiar figure caught her eye. Levi Marcus. Levi, like the Bible, and the jeans – sexy jeans - and, most of all, like that guy sitting right there, with the eyes and that <i>beanie</i> she seldom saw him without. Her expression brightened as she chassé’d her way over to her Danny in his Deep Blue Sea of a couch, and ultimately <i>beamed</i> upon arrival, “<b>Well, hey. I didn’t think I’d see <i>you</i> here…</b>” A pause, as her eyes darted from his eyes, half-hidden by aforementioned black-beanie, to the bottle by his side – his only company ? maybe, judging by the empty seats on the sofa – to finally land on his hands for just a second, which, for some reason she couldn’t find words to explain, made her bite her lip before looking back up at his face. <i>Well then.</i> She offered a smile, “<b>You here by yourself ?</b>”
<br><br>
Another pause then, Isabelle ran her tongue lightly along the edge of her lip almost contemplatively before taking another sip – longer this time, <i>please</i> - from her glass. She lowered her gaze, sooty lashes falling over her eyes for a second, before catching a glance of a well-used card box sitting on the table nearby. Nimble figures flexed, reached across to snatch it up, presuming this was an acceptable thing to do before common sense could remind her they might’ve belonged to someone who wouldn’t like her touching them. <i>Oh</i> well, the mystery owner, if there was, in fact, one, could always ask for the pack back later, and wasn’t it put to better use now, as a stress ball of sorts, than it was just sitting there by its lonesome on the table ? Yes ? Good. She thought so too. Fingertips all the while perusing the slightly-etched surface of the box-in-hand, she looked back at Levi, “<b>If you are…do you think you’re maybe up for some company ?</b>”



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He was sexually frustrated. That was all one needed to know, right? Girls, er, women, pretty women, girls like Isabelle, sweet and kind and friendly, and soft and ... and pretty. For fuck's sake, what happened to his fantastic vocabulary? Pretty was an inadequate descriptor. Beautiful was over-used. Hot was garish. She was like a lotus or something, something. Something. Sexually frustrated: one. And two? Writer's block. Annihilating writer's block. It was killing him. He needed to write and he needed to.. well... fuck. <i>Gahdamnfuck</i>. Crass. Asshat. He better not open his mouth. What if the only intelligible spoken words were colorful defamations? Perhaps a couple shots of absinthe and vodka would loosen the ropes, the locked-up hip mechanisms, and the "no eye contact" code of conduct. The cool surface of the tumbler in his hand, the real weight of it in his cradling fingers, hoisting it to his lips. And another. And another, please, good sir and madam. Shots for effrontery, shots for kisses. It was all illustrated benignly (and well-lit) in his mind. He would take his liquid courage, his social ticket to "cool", then take that bonnie's hand and tug her toward... Well, where exactly did one "make out" in a pub? Honestly, were there certain places for that sort of activity? Certain areas to round second base amongst the bartops and high tables and corduroy couches?<br></br>

As his grey matter unraveled, like yarn loosened from a scarf, weaving in retrograde, Levi pressed fingertips into the cushion snugged over his eyes, deftly. Nothing that rotated in his mind was reality. There was no absinthe or vodka, no tumbler in his hand. Even the circumstances in which he knew of Isabelle weren’t real circumstances at all. Yes, she was sweet like syrup and kind-ish, and more friendly then he knew how to handle, but physical-anything, touching or affection or tickling . . . he never made those moves. They were so strictly infeasible it nearly made him nauseas to contemplate. <i>“Well, hey. I didn’t think I’d see you here…”</i> Meagerly, he tugged back the material over his eyes. Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever meet a more surreal person, so beyond the bounds of possibility. His mouth buckled inward, lips rubbing left to right, watching Isabelle as she gazed about his . . . stuff. <i>“You here by yourself?” </i> she asked, like a woodpecker rapping her beak against the malleable (damaged? rotten?) cortex of his soul. Or, had it, really, been more seductive? Oh, God. Levi dropped his sight in rose-tinged shame. Sex-zombie was gnawing on his brain.<br></br>

He plucked up the bottle and smashed it against his mouth, and by the time he let it fall once more onto his hip, the deck of cards sittin’ on the table had been abducted. <b>“Shit, I was supposed t’ … watch. .. “</b> he blurted, words wet from whiskey bathing. He scaled (his eyes did the climb) up Isabelle’s long legs to the bicycle box of cards within her alien, bird-like grasp. <b>”Ah. Well, they aren’t mine.”</b> He doubted this news would phase her. Perhaps the gentleman would return and she could trottle-thwap off to his copse and leave undearly anti-social, middle-Marcus to his own affectionately frustrated devices. What <i>had</i> he hoped to achieve coming to a place like this alone? And <i>staying</i> alone? It was kind’of difficult to people-watch when he’d rather get plastered drunk. Had he no sound reasoning at all? No, no, there had to be a good, rational reason to come <i>out</i>, outside of his little cardboard box, his huddle-corner of the world, and drink amongst <i>other people</i>. What had it been? <br></br>

Hey wait, what did she say? He missed it. She said something else, to him. Must have drowned it out with the introspective gulps of melodrama. His vision swam. He blinked harder and squinted up at her, <b>“I. . . what? Yes? Is that. . . what … what are you doing here?”</b> This was all going wrong. <b>”Some guy put them on the table there. Told me to watch them for him. And called me ‘son’.”</b> Please, someone break-out into “Who Let the Dogs Out?”. Up went the bottle, and down the hatch another lengthy, signature swig sledged. Then his body moved. Levi shifted to the left, leaving the center of his island for Isabelle to join him on it. If she wanted to. If she would. </p>
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