It was raining, that warm April night on Tucker Street, the gentle kind of rain that rinses the day’s dust off the shop awnings, and leaves the sidewalks glistening in anticipation of stiletto heels and Keds. I stood alone outside the window, the Guinness sign behind me reflecting in the gleaming black 69 Grand Prix at the curb.
I lit a cigarillo, took a long drag and exhaled. I watched the smoke mosey along, as mellow as the wisps of Bedtime Story from Boney’s horn drifting through the door, and I felt my soul down-shift a notch. But as I headed for the bar, I heard the slamming door across the street.
I turned just in time to see a girlish figure gesturing at a second floor window, now open with a face in the shadows inside. “You keep your stupid truffles,” she yelled. “And I can get better coffee at Dunkin Donuts.” She hurled a mug at the window. It missed, shattering noisily on the brick wall, and sending her running into the street to avoid the shards.
She stopped in the middle of the deserted street to put her heels back on, and compose herself. Now standing five inches taller, she tousled her hair and looked up to see me watching. Her annoyed frown melted slowly into a cool smile. “Enjoy the show, did you?”
I nodded, and tipped my trilby. “He didn't share his truffles?”
She strutted across the street, leaning against the Grand Prix and smoothing her sleek skirt. “Chocolate addicts, they're nuts. And he made this French-press coffee he swore was the best thing since Starbucks. He knows I like vanilla lattes.”
“So let me guess, you like Cosmos too?” I offered the pack. “Smoke?”
“Ewww, those things are disgusting. The drinks and the cigarettes.”
I grinned at her wrinkled nose. “Well why don't you come on into the bar and show me what a mug-throwing, coffee-hating, truffle-jealous chick drinks?” Her eyes narrowed at my blunt assessment.
She pursed her lips, pulled herself up to her full five-foot-six (with heels), and sashayed to the door.
Jack the bartender greeted us as we pulled up stools. She looked at me in the bottle-cluttered mirror. “I'll give you three guesses what I drink on a rainy night after a fight with a guy. Loser buys.”
I turned to study this intrigue, her nails tapping and head bobbing to the compelling rhythm of Max Roach. There was a spark in her eye, like an inner rebel peeking out. She was enjoying this. But then, so was I.
“After a fight? Grey Goose.” I knew her type, so I thought.
She smirked. “That's for the end of a sixty hour week. I just left a guy over truffles.”
“Okay, Scotch and soda? Hold the soda?”
She chuckled. “I'm not your grandfather.”
Hmm. She knew what she liked, even the vanilla latte. That's it. “What you want, is a White Russian.”
She shook her head with a grin. “That would be girls' night out. For the other girls.”
She turned to the bartender who was enjoying the show. “He's buying,” she elbowed me, “and I'll have Henny.”
I nodded at Jack, held up two fingers, and pulled out my cash. We watched silently as he poured the smooth dark amber into our glasses. Together we picked up our glasses, swirled, sniffed, and sipped. Together we leaned back, sighed and looked at each other.
“Kinda clears the stress right out of your day, doesn't it?” For the first time her lips softened into a real smile.
I nodded. “Like a gentle rain on a warm summer night.” I extended my hand. “By the way, my name is-”
“Shh,” she put a finger to my lips. “You'll always be Mr. Hennessy to me. But I'll give you a ride in the Grand Prix. You were paying more attention to the car than to me, weren't you?”
“The two of you go together well, I have to say. But yeah, it's a great car. And much as I love the rain, sixteen blocks is a long walk.”
We walked outside, and she dangled the keys. “You wanna?”
I snatched them from her before warning, “You really don't know me that well, lady. I could be a pervert.”
She winked. “So could I,” and hopped in the car. We hit the street and cruised along as Dexter Gordon played to the rhythm of the windshield wipers. The drink had relaxed us both and we chatted like old drinking buddies about life, love, chocolate and cognac.
It took about twenty minutes of random cruising before she gave me a sideways glance and said, “You know this is a lot farther than sixteen blocks in the rain.”
I turned the corner onto Tucker Street. “Or a lot closer than sixteen blocks in the rain.” I pointed down the block where the neon Guinness sign reflected in the rainy street.
She reached over and smacked my arm. “You live on this block?”
We got out of the car across the street from the bar. “Oh look, somebody smashed a coffee cup here.” I grinned at her. “I'd better sweep that up, I know my neighbor won't.”
“You're the neighbor? You’re the one on the balcony playing clarinet. We listened to you earlier.”
“Yeah, I went out for a smoke when the truffles became an argument. He screwed up my recipe, by the way. But wait till you taste my espresso cognac truffle. You’ll have to try one. Or six. Then I'll show you how French-press coffee is done right. But only if you help me clean up.”
She reached out her hand. “It's a deal. By the way, my name is-”
“Shh,” I put my finger to her lips. “You'll always be Truffles to me.”
It was raining, that April night on Tucker Street. The sidewalks glistened under a pair of stilettos and a pair of Keds. The Guinness sign put a glow on the street, the Hennessy mellowed our minds, and Guiffre's clarinet wrapped up our souls. But it was the simple wonder of two people connecting in the magic of the night that warmed our hearts. We were alone. We were together. Together is better.
.
