A mole shows darkly against her fair skin, high on the inside of her left breast. She has another on her back, also on the left side, nestled in the crease of her shoulder blade. Michael is irrationally fascinated by the darkness. It looks like a line of shadow once pierced her ribs, ran through her heart, and bled through her skin on either side, leaving the two brown spots. This is the sort of thing that interests him. He asks to buy her a drink.

“Sure, cutie.” She drinks rum and pineapple juice. “Because I don’t like to taste my alcohol,” she says. “I just want to feel it.” When she talks she sweeps her wrist in a languid circle. The mole wavers in the dim light. He’ll write a song about it later.

“So what do you do?” He pretends to be interested, like he’s supposed to, only he actually does want to know. She’s an artist, but she has a better name for it. She’s an independent design concept consultant. That sounds very official.

They talk for close to an hour and she has three more rum-and-pineapple drinks. She’s more slurring now than talking. This doesn’t add much to the conversation. Michael offers to take her home, but this confuses her. He wonders why she looks at him so quizzically. He rephrases the question.

“Want to go back to my place?” She shrugs and starts to follow him out, but the bartender stops them.  He’s a pleasant, balding man in an apron. He grabs her wrist gently and shakes his head. She rolls her eyes and sits down. Michael tries to talk to the man, but he shakes his head again, taps his nose, and points to a corner of the bar where three men sit at a table, watching.

They are well dressed, in suits. One of them gestures for the woman to come sit with him. He is taller than the other two, but not so much as to be called a tall man. She sighs and goes to him, sliding lazily into the booth. He puts his arm around her shoulders, never pulling his eyes from Michael. She idly smoothes his untidy brown hair. A waitress brings her a drink, rum with pineapple juice.

“Who is that?” he asks no one in particular. The bartender answers, telling him it’s the owner, an Irish businessman. The way he stresses business is disconcerting. Michael feels cold as he leaves the bar, but the July night is warm and thick with moisture. It starts to rain.

Author guidance for This story

A short story in four parts.

updated Apr 4 '11 by Lyre