Booth Number Three

She would never forget the night she had gotten her first proposal. It had been 11:52 exactly, she knew because she had an annoying habit of glancing at the clock every short interval, and she had just been staring at the silver dials when the man in booth number three hit his spoon against the  empty beer bottle at his table and lifted a shaking hand to signal for the waitress. She was the only one on duty for the night, so when she saw the signal she sighed and grudgingly set down the old magazine she had been turning through. She grabbed one of the fresh beer bottles and a rusty bottle opener and headed towards the booth. The man gazed up at her slowly when she approached him, and she could see the deep set wrinkles under his eyes, the red and blotchy skin, the sweat glistening off his forehead. She took a small step back, repulsed slightly by the miskept figure. It had been a while since she had had the night shift, ans she had forgotten how disheveled and pitiful the late night drinkers sometimes looked.

The man had been sitting with his chin on the table and his arms spread out in front of him, and after his short inspection of the stranger beside him, he had shifted his eyes so that the pupils seemed to be glaring into the red fabric of the cushioned seat in front of him.

Feeling awkward, she gave a small cough and chimed “Another one, sir?” in her best waitress smile. The man gave a grunt but she had already popped the cap off and set the glass bottle on the table besides the man’s left arm. Picking up the empty bottle gingerly, she turned to leave, but suddenly she felt a hand grab her arm violently, nearly throwing the bottle out of her clutches.

She stood still in alarm. None of the customers had ever grabbed her before and her mind swam with whatever scant knowledge of self defense her 18 years had given her.

Punch the nose, eyes and then groin, she thought frantically to herself. Or was it the groin first and then the eyes and nose?

She prepared herself in what she thought a good fighting stance, but the man did nothing. He just held onto her arm and gazed dully at the seat in front of him, his eyes cloudy and gray. Then slowly he turned them to her, and for the first time she saw what incredible sadness resided in those large stone marbles.

“I’m a ruined man,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “Gone, washed away, poof!”

“Sir, let go of me!” she exclaimed, trying to wrench her wrist away from the man’s grip. But he was tenacious, and held on fast.

“She said I was unwanted. She threw me away,” came the whisper again, more like a turbid moan than  a statement.  “I-I am unwanted.”

He paused and his dry lips quivered. Then he looked straight up into her eyes and seemed to plead with her.

“Am I unwanted?” he demanded in the quietest whispers she had ever chanced to hear.

Her skin prickled with fear and she managed to stutter our a weak “I don’t know…”

But the man was not listening to her reply, instead he was pulling something out os his pocket with his free hand and her heart quickened. She glanced around the bar but she knew it was empty. The streets too, shone black through the windows, empty and quiet.

But the man did not pull out a gun, knife or some other weapon as she had thought; instead he pulled out a satin blue box, no larger than his palm. Once again he looked up at her with pleading eyes.

“Would you want me? Would you…marry me?” he implored, holding the box up to her.

She repulsed at the idea of even touching such a creature, and immediately the words burst out of her;  “No, now let me go!”

She jerked her hand away, but the man had already released his grip, and the force sent her tumbling backwards against the counter, and the empty beer bottle in her hand fell to the ground with a crash.

She took hold of herself and backed away from the man quickly, looking wildly around the bar for a weapon in case the man should approach her again.

But instead the man only stumbled out of the booth and made his way to the front door, ignoring the girls tensed form and whispering hoarsely to himself “Unwanted...unwanted”

She was still trembling when the last traces of the man disappeared from her room through the windows, and she silently cursed her boss for putting her on the night shift alone. She knew it was only a small town, but there are freaks everywhere, she thought, whispering a short prayer, thankful that she was safe.

She hurried over to the front door and locked it, disregarding the fact that there was still a half hour until closing. Then, she grabbed the broom from behind the counter and  began sweeping up the glass shards from the shattered bottle. When she passed by booth three, however, she stopped and looked at the oak tabletop. There, sitting just where the man had left it, was the blue sating box.

Trembling but curious, she lifted the box and opened it slowly. There was a gasp that emitted from her throat as she gazed upon one of the most beautiful items she had ever seen.

It was a diamond ruby gold ring, shining like no other gem had ever shone. Tucked behind it was a small note, and she opened it carefully. Inside, written in beautiful calligraphy, was the following;

To my dearest Darcie, so that we may start our new life together

She folded the note slowly, gazing out the window into the black night. Then she shut the satin box with a snap and slipped it into the pocket of her apron. Turning away from the booth, she swept up the remaining glass, turned off the lights and drove home.

 

Greg Larson, the man in booth number three, committed suicide at precisely 1:39 a.m.; the police knew the exact time because Philip Green, a man who had an annoying habit of walking up and down the river bridge when he couldn’t sleep, had just been checking the glowing dials of his wrist watch when her heard the splash. When she read about it in the paper at exactly 3:21 p.m. two days later, she felt a sudden moment of numbness.

She pulled out the satin box from her dresser drawer hesitantly. Suppose he was just a poor man who had had a life of misfortune and had only been reaching out to her that night. Or suppose he was a psychotic man capable of killing or raping someone alone in a bar, and she had been lucky to get away safely. Suppose had she said yes he might not have died. Suppose had she said yes she might have dug her own grave. She was unsure whether to feel guilty or apathetic.

Slowly she opened the box once more and slipped the ring onto her own finger. She stretched out her hand and admired the glistening adornment. Then she took the empty box and the old note and threw both into the trash, folding the newspaper in her lap neatly and resuming her daily activities.     

Author's Note

What would you have done in the place of the main character?
Sort of a random thing i just wrote on the fly.

Reviews

[lostboy]

being a man i cannot say what i would have done as a woman i have experinced both sides of this story the world can be a hard place this is good writeing