Mac went to meet Sara at “The Library,” the neighborhood tavern near her apartment, the following evening. She had him wait awhile. Mac sat at the bar, his eyes focused on the entrance door, periodically checking his new Panerai Italian Diving Watch, while sipping on a single malt. The place was quiet, the white cloths on the tables yet to be disturbed. Dark wood paneling, bookshelves full of old, non-descript books, slate floor, and tinted windows open to the busy street, Mac felt the place very mysterious, yet somehow homey.
The red vested Irish bartender brought Mac his second single malt, without his asking for it, while passing the time with a story in his best brogue. Mac removed a pack of Lucky Strikes from the inside breast pocket of his blue pin stripped suit, pulling out a smoke. The bartender struck a heavy wooden match off his ragged brown fingernail, as Mac was half listening to the old man, and half listening to Bing Crosby crooning softly from the radio behind the bar. The smoke encircled his neatly coifed hair, rising to the ceiling as if in hope of her arrival. Mac was mired in his thoughts, thinking perhaps she would not show. He was young, but in his self-confidence, he would normally find that possibility inconceivable.
Just then, the serenity of the moment was broken, as the outside oak door burst open with a bang, causing both Mac and the bartender to look up from the old man's story. Sara sauntered in, clearly rushed, but smiling as she saw that Mac had waited for her. She wore an open blue blazer over a light blue silk liberty print dress, very smart, yet most alluring. Sara moved like a dancer, the thin fabric clinging to the strength in her long, sinewy legs. She removed her blue felt, feathered hat as she approached him at the bar, her dark tresses down this time, framing her angelic face, giving Mac a friendly kiss on the cheek.
“Let's sit at a table?” she asked, more business like than friendly, perhaps for the benefit of the nosy bartender's ears. He apparently could not help himself either, staring at the attractive creature that just appeared in his bar, disturbing his story.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I could not get out of work. Things are a bit crazy with what is happening in Finland. Have you heard? Stalin has invaded. Crazy, no?”
She was softer spoken now, somewhat demure, shy even. She seemed more careful and deliberate than she had been when they had met in the office just yesterday.
She looks a little apprehensive, Mac wondered to himself, or maybe she is just distracted. Russia did just invade Finland, after all. I’m sure the embassy is chaotic.
“I did hear. That's terrible. He wanted to beat Germany to it, apparently, protecting Russia's northern exposure in case Hitler turns on him, like he has done to everyone else.”
As they sat at a corner table, she ordered a drink at his suggestion, vodka on the rocks, which she never did manage to touch. He had most of a third scotch while they sat together, he clearly even more nervous than she. Sara tried to act laid back, her ankles crossed beneath the table, seemingly relaxed in the red leather padded chair. She was, however, seemingly studying his every word. Nervously, she took a cigarette from his pack of Lucky Strikes on the table without asking. He smiled as he lit it for her; she took a deep drag into her healthy lungs. Mac thought her sophisticated in the way she smoked, and in the apparent confidence with which she conducted herself. He thought her accent delightful, yet her English impeccable. The smoke leaked from her painted lips toward the pressed tin ceiling, in a direction away from where he was sitting. He could not take his eyes off her.
“Where did you learn to speak such beautiful English,” he inquired, more to make conversation, than to know the answer.
“I studied at University in Moscow, and I have been in this country for five years now. Languages come easy to me.”
“You look so young. How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” he cringed inside at his clearly inappropriate query.
“You are not supposed to ask a lady that question,” she laughed, clearly not upset. “I am twenty-eight years old. Too old for you?”
“No,” he laughed. “I am almost twenty-seven myself,” he glad that he had not offended her.
She smiled at him, as she re-crossed her ankles, putting her manicured hand on the white tablecloth. There was a lull in the conversation. She began playing with a spoon at her place on the table, looking around the dark restaurant. He knew he needed to fill the void, to do more of the talking, while she would do most of the judging. He was on the hot seat, not her. It would be clear to anyone what she brought to the table. Yet, in all fairness to Mac, Sara clearly seemed to sense what he brought to the table as well.
God, she is so heavenly, he thought, before trying to re-start the conversation. He was trying intently not to stare. Those incredible blue eyes, the soft flowing hair cascading down over her shoulders, curves in all the right places, he noticed appreciatively, while thinking of what to say next. She dresses like a lady, yet with a hint of daring. Those interminably long, sleek, silk covered legs, he dreamed on, oh, my God.
He was flustered, to be sure, but he was determined to make her like him. He felt he had only one chance at this. It was not that he was inexperienced with women, but his involvement was exclusively with younger, more impressionable girls.
“I was so fascinated with your translating skills,” he said, again rather lamely. He began to laugh, most likely from nervousness.
She giggled, “You understand Russian?”
“No,” he laughed, “but you sounded lovely.”
She laughed again. “Do you speak any languages besides English?” she inquired.
“I speak Italian and French, somewhat fluently, but I try not to let on,” he said modestly.
“Why not?”
“I use it in a pinch to impress the ladies. Got to save it for when I need it,” he said, obviously attempting to be amusing.
She laughed again. “Speak Italian to me, mi amore,” she begged, following his jocular lead, batting her long eyelashes at him suggestively.
“Maybe when I get close enough so you can feel my warm breath on your neck,” he chuckled, wishing it were to happen, right then and there.
“You make me laugh.”
“I suppose that's a good thing. It's something, anyway.”
They were natural banterers; the two to them, and each were becoming more comfortable with the other.
“No, you are very handsome,” she offered, clearly seeking to make him more relaxed. “And I do enjoy a good laugh. It is so rare these days.”
“Yes, the world is caving in on itself, isn’t it? Everyone is so serious. I like a good laugh myself.” After a slight pause, he continued, “and, to be honest, your smile is making me weak in the knees. I fully intend to keep that smile on your face,” he said with a big smile himself.
Sara smiled back at Mac without comment, re-crossing her ankles yet again, acknowledging Mac's notice by self-consciously tugging her skirt down.
“Sorry, you are just so lovely. I was admiring your shoes,” he laughed at his own use of humor to extricate himself from his inappropriateness.
“Thank you, Thomas. I am sure you are so interested in ladies’ shoes. But I assure you that I am pleased that you look at me longingly.”
Just when he was about to ask her to dinner, she interrupted his intended careful approach.
“Perhaps the next time we should meet at my place,” she purred, in her best Russian accent, somewhat stunning him. She was looking alluringly into his big brown eyes, clearly suggesting something more than his intended careful approach.
Everything is not always as it seems. He wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly, or if she was still kidding around.
“You are bold, my dear. I like that. No beating around the bush.”
“Thomas, I take what I want. Sometimes, you just must take the bull by the horns, so to speak.”
They both laughed. He put his hand on hers, which was still resting on the white tablecloth. He leaned over to give her a tender kiss on her now blushed cheek. She smiled, and grasped his hand, pulling it up to her lips, to brush a light kiss across his skin.
“I hope you do not think of me too terrible, Thomas. Life is too short. Let's just have a good time with each other. With what is happening all around us, if you do not take the opportunities when they arise, they may never come again. You know what I am saying?”
“Yes, absolutely. I would love to come to your place. I am not about to let you pass me by. Life is too short, I agree.”
She got up from the table with a smile, saying she had to get going, and that she was looking forward to being with him again real soon. She put on her hat, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. She left him with a casual kiss on his cheek, and with her home address. He followed her with his eyes as she left clip clopping out of the still empty restaurant, her high heel shoes tapping on the slate floor. Sara turned to wave to him as she opened the door to leave, the smile still broadly across her face.
Mac was overwhelmed. He finished his drink, pondering the encounter. Too good to be true? She is so beautiful. Is this not what it seems? He was not going to allow this opportunity to pass no matter how mysterious this all seemed. He would worry about tomorrow, tomorrow, as was his way.