Sangria

She sat alone at the bar nursing a cosmopolitan that didn’t talk all that much. Most of the men were too intimidated to try and butt into the cosmopolitan’s conversation, but occasionally their liquid courage would get the better of them. They would take a deep breath and try their best to burn bright with confidence as they approached her. She would effortlessly pinch each of their little flames before they could even begin to melt the ice. She didn’t mind them trying, it was a fun game and they always played nice.

She sat on a rickety bar stool in a glimmering purple dress that hugged each curve like the edge on a knife. She tapped her nails next to her glass, counting the time. The dim lights made it hard to notice the streaks of scarlet that were hiding in her long, jet black hair. Eyes often passed over her and most lingered, but she didn’t mind. The painting she wore tonight was meant to catch attention. A web she spun just for them. So it was here that she sat on her easel and waited.

…

Rage. Anyone could tell he carried it like a scar with just a glance. The white-hot lines of it could be seen in his scowl. He wore dark boots and walked with heavy steps. The crowd in front of him parted to avoid their weight. He hated this place as soon as he walked in. There was a sea of flannels and backward hats and a mist of stale beer rose between the tides. His shark-skin jacket cut through it all as he made his way toward the bar.

Even if this place was a shithole, no one else seemed to think so. The crowd bustled, bumped, and sang while the stomps from the nearby dance floor shook the place. Moving through it all gnawed on his patience. “I swear to god if one of these hicks gets their shitkickers anywhere near my boots, I’ll kill ‘em.”, he said under his breath. He made it to the bar without needing to keep his promise, but the night was still young.

Old country music was blaring from speakers tucked in the back corner. The drawl of a harmonica accompanied the scrape of the bar stool as he took a seat next to some pretty painting in purple. She kept her back turned to him which was something he wasn’t used to. He’d deal with that issue later, but right now all he needed was a drink. He reached over the bar and snapped his fingers at the bartender and barked, “Hey grab me a beer would ya. Doesn’t matter what kind as long as it’s in a bottle. And another of whatever the lady is drinking.”

He turned toward the woman sitting next to him before he could see the eyeroll of the overworked bartender. She still wasn’t looking at him, but she had turned to face the bar to thank the man behind it for the drink. The man next to her took that as an excuse to start a conversation. “Think I could trade a drink for your name?”, he said in a soft voice. He did his best to sound like he cared. With her elbows propped on the counter and her pale fists cradling her chin, she turned her head just enough to look him up and down. He sat with one boot on the spoke of the stool and the other planted firmly on the floor. He was leaning on the bar with a forced smirk hanging from his face. He had dark brown eyes and long lashes. His bleached blonde hair was buzzed short and his sharp jawline was unburdened by any stubble. His eyebrows were a darker blonde and he definitely shaped them, though she doubted he would ever admit it.

“My name is worth a whole lot more than a drink.” She made no effort to hide the boredom in her voice as she spoke. She looked back over the bar and brought her new glass to her lips. The man’s smirk faltered and a spark was struck behind his eyes. “If that’s the case, how ‘bout we trade a name for a name then? Mine 's Paul.” She threw her head back and laughed. Now any attempt of a smirk was wiped from Paul’s face and his fist tightened around his bottle. After a minute, she regained her composure and turned to look him in the eyes. She could almost see the flames licking his irises and threw them more kindling as she said, “What kind of a name is that?”

Moments after the last word left her red lips, Paul’s hand snatched her arm and jerked her close. The sudden movement and clatter of the stools pulled some eyes from the crowd around them, but no one said a word. They just went back to their own conversations. Dead calm, he whispered in her ear, “What’s wrong with my name?” Before she even considered answering, she looked down at his neck and the urge to taste it almost overwhelmed her. His cologne was a mix of cedar and clear river water. It was intoxicating. But her want to keep playing the game snapped her out of it. She moved her free arm around him and placed her hand on the small of his back. She moved her head up and placed her lips right next to his ear and whispered, “I just thought you’d come up with something a bit more creative, Paul. Mine’s Ophelia.” She then lightly bit his earlobe to which Paul then shoved her back into her barstool. This time she stumbled and almost knocked it over. This drew more eyes than before and some conversations stopped completely.

The commotion finally prompted a man in bleach stained skinny jeans and a blue plaid flannel to walk over and ask, “Everything alright over here?” After Ophelia regained her balance and smoothed her dress she dawned one of her favorite masks and looked at the man with panicked eyes. Paul spoke first through gritted teeth, “We’re all good, buddy. She just tripped. Mind your own.” The stranger wasn’t convinced. He looked at Ophelia and said again with more concern, “You okay?” Ophelia’s eyes darted to Paul and then back to the stranger. She wrung her hands and then gave the stranger a short nod. At this point most of the bar had stopped to watch. This was a bit too much attention for Paul so he walked over to Ophelia and put his hand around her waist. He wore his best smile and raised his hand to everyone watching. “We’ve had a bit too much to drink. I think it’d be best if we just went home. Show’s over everyone.” They began walking toward the door and the crowd parted just as it had when he came in, except this time with a bit more hesitancy. The stranger behind them began to follow and said under his breath, “I wouldn’t mind some fresh air myself.”

The roar of conversation began again as soon as the couple got out of the door. They began walking down the sidewalk and turned a corner to get out of sight of the bouncers. The cool night air of late autumn nipped at their exposed skin. A welcome change compared to the congestion of the bar.

“What were you thinking making all that damn noise?”, Paul said in a stern whisper.

“Me? Your dumbass threw me into the chair. Which actually quite hurt, thanks for asking.”, Ophelia retorted.

“You deserved it. You weren’t exactly playing nice tonight.”

“Oh you poor thing.”

Paul gave her a look that rivaled a rattlesnake’s. “You know how it’s supposed to go. We flirt, then get into an argument, then I get some idiot wrapped into it with us. Not the whole damn bar.”

Ophelia smiled sweetly and grabbed his hand, “I don’t know. I kind of liked all the attention. I think we should do something like that more often.”

Paul just shook his head. He’d argue with her about it later.

Paul noticed the sound of the footsteps trailing them before they even left the bar. It was a sound that often followed their little games. Ophelia noticed them a bit later and her eyes danced with delight. She wasn’t sure if she played her part well enough for this little treat, but it seemed like she had. The stranger was about a block behind them. The couple rounded another corner and stopped to let him catch up. They stood facing each other and just as the steps came into earshot Ophelia gave Paul a smile slow and sweet as molasses and mouthed the word “Sorry.” She cocked her hand back and nearly slapped Paul’s overwhite teeth right out of his mouth.

If she were sane, the look Paul gave her after should have made her stomach drop to the floor and run. But all she could think about was how exactly he’d make her pay for it later on in the night.

“You whore. I’ll wring your neck right here in the middle of the fucking street. Don’t you dare think I won’t.”, Paul shouted as he reached for her throat. She just giggled quietly and raised her chin to make it easier for him.

The pace of the steps quickened to a run just as Ophelia was beginning to get dizzy and a pair of familiar skinny jeans rounded the corner and tackled Paul to the pavement. “Oh thank God! The crazy bastard was gonna kill me!” Ophelia screamed through a smile. She began walking backward slowly as the two men scuffled on the ground. She kept her hands covering her mouth in an attempt to hide her grin, but her eyes would have given her away with just a glance.

The two were rolling on the ground and through the grunts Paul and Skinny Jeans could be heard throwing insults at one another.

“I’m gonna make you swallow your fucking teeth. Chasing after me and my girl, what were you thinking.”, said Paul as he landed an elbow on the stranger's nose.

“You’re sick. Maybe they’ll bring you a shrink in the hospital.”, spat the stranger. The two men scrambled and got to their feet. The stranger’s flannel gathered stains across its front as his nose dripped.

Paul’s eyes narrowed. “What hospital? We’re playing for keeps.” Ice hung from his words.

The stranger’s eyes met Paul’s and they didn’t falter. He raised his fists and began walking forward until he noticed a glint of purple in the shadow of a nearby building. “The hell are you doing, run!”, he yelled. In that split second, Paul ran and dove at the man’s legs. But the stranger was quick and Paul caught a knee with his chin and landed on his back. While the world was still spinning, the man got on top of Paul and pinned his back to the pavement. He then fed Paul three right hooks, each making a clean connection with his face.

The first landed on his nose and it began to leak.

“Who’s swallowing their teeth?”, the stranger asked.

The second landed on his cheek and fractured his jaw.

“Who’s swallowing their teeth?” he said again, louder.

The third landed on his mouth and his white teeth were stained a deep scarlet after.

“WHO’S SWALLOWING THEIR FUCKING TEETH?”

All the while Ophelia was leaning on a brick wall not far from the fight, knowing every strike he took whetted Paul’s bloodlust. She liked her toys sharp and she wasn’t worried, this was their seventh Saturday after all.

The third strike must’ve knocked some gears back in place because Paul threw an accurate straight right from his back after. It landed on the stranger’s chin and dazed him enough for Paul to roll him over and get into a full mount of his own.

Paul preferred using his elbows to his fists, but he wanted to feed the man his own medicine. He wanted to teach him how to throw hard enough to end it. The stranger should have learned that lesson before he picked this fight. Each swing was an ocean wave and the stranger’s teeth were shoreline rocks. Knuckles dashed against them, breaking each to pieces. Paul lost count of how many crashed, but he refused to stop. He saw only red and wanted more.

When it was done, the man on the pavement laid in a pool of blood. He did not twitch. He did not groan. He did not breathe. Paul looked at the back of his hands and began to pick out the pieces that had gotten lodged in his knuckles. Without looking at her, he asked “Was that enough, pretty girl?”

Ophelia stood not far away, no longer smiling. She held one hand over her mouth and the other across her stomach. But her eyes held no terror or disgust, they were filled with nothing but awe.

She spoke softly, “Yes baby that’s plenty. Take me home please.”