Cue and Brew

The bar is brightly lit and perfumed with the yeasty stench of cheap IPA. I see him from across the room, transfixed on a table in the corner of the large pool hall. I have seen him before in passing, a part of the same larger group but always separated by two or three other humans. Something about him has stuck in my mind like a stick in mud. He is tall and athletically built, with a sharp, angular strawberry blond beard. His thunderous laugh fills a room like helium, his smile is magnetic. His eyes are a disarming pastel, safe and shallow. I want them to look into mine and hear him say my name. 

I see our mutual friend who I greet, pretending like I don’t notice him. I turn toward the table where he is ignoring me. What odd social decorum I think, just my flavor. I watch his movements as he surveys the table, circling it like a lion stalking its prey. Suddenly he goes in for the kill, with a hard swipe of the cue sinking a ball in the furthest corner pocket. I draw a sharp, involuntary, and audible breath. He glances up for a quarter of a second to make sure I saw, then goes back to circling the table. He likes an audience. No, I think, he needs one. 

He proceeds to sink every ball on the table, playing himself like a professional. The uncanny attraction I feel falls away as I am hypnotized by the game and his clear dedication to it. Skill and talent aside, there is an essence of dependency, an obsessive quality about his fixation and resulting neglect of the world around him. A tortured artist. As he sinks the last ball I get up with complete confidence and say “I want to learn.” 

He says “Okay,” mildly amused but otherwise unphased. There’s a sadness about him, like he’s been dragged up by life’s current, letting it carry him in and out, lacking the will to fight it. He gives pointers and suggestions, patiently watching as I suffer through several directionless shots. I feel in me a flicker of competition, my focus turning from the mysterious man towards the green turf and acrylic balls. The competitor in me feels like an old friend I lost touch with stopping by, unannounced. I don’t get any better as the night progresses but my will to improve grows. He offers a mix of encouragement and criticism, making me feel properly taken seriously while fairly appraised as an amateur. Despite his willingness to help me learn, the stranger shows no sign of interest in me. He must be in a relationship, I think. I overcome the disappointment of that realization quickly, knowing that in whatever way I can, I want to know him. I want to understand why this tall beautiful man is so sad. Why does he take so seriously a game I’ve only ever seen old men and drunks play? Why does he go out with a group of friends and spends not one moment socializing with them? 

The loner in me gains a friend before he even knows it. The painfully awkward, dry humored girl. The wanting to be wanted but not knowing how to be known girl. I’ve spent a long time stifling her but she stirs in the presence of a kindred spirit. 

Where do I stand deciding I know this person before we have spoken even one word other than “spin”, “cushion,” or “ball,” to each other? Witchcraft.