String Bridge Read Online Free Page B

of alcohol bottles behind the bartender—a very old, classy man who had worked there for thirty years and obsessively wiped the bar dry.
    “The Kinks, Dead Kennedys, Elvis Costello. You?” Alex answered, turning to face me on the “you.” He slid his body a little closer. My stomach tightened in anticipation. All I wanted to do was wrap my legs around his waist and savor his touch, the poignant tenderness I imagined he hid below his black leather tough-guy exterior.
    “PJ Harvey, Nick Cave, Joni Mitchell,” I replied, smiling so hard my lips stung.
    “Nice.” Alex nodded, took another sip of his drink and turned to face the bar again.
    “Get into a bit of trip hop now and then too. Nightmares on Wax. Stuff like that,” I added, trying to get him to look at me again. His cool manner was so well executed I wondered whether it was even a manner at all. Perhaps that was just him. Naturally at ease. Sure of himself. And not afraid to flaunt it. Perfect , I thought. This is the kind if man I want in my life. A man untainted with insecurity.
    “Trip hop, hey? Unusual,” replied Alex, contorting his mouth into an intrigued frown.
    “Why?” I put my drink down and reached for some nuts. “Why is that unusual?” As I put the nuts in my mouth, one escaped and dropped into my crotch. I pretended I hadn’t noticed and slowly opened my legs to let it drop to the floor. Alex pretended not to notice, but I caught him take a fleeting look.
    “Well, Greek girls don’t usually mix tastes like that,” said Alex, putting down his drink. He looked me right in the eye this time, as if trying to read my thoughts.
    “Well, I’m Australian, so that’s irrelevant, right?” Quirky innocence invaded the tone in my voice. I didn’t want to be quirky and innocent. I wanted to be strange and mysterious. I tried to wipe the grin off my face, to appear more in control of my feelings. But it was too late.
    “Right,” Alex replied, a semitone lower than usual, moving his face so close to mine I could feel his breath on my lips. I could taste his whiskey, smell his aftershave. My mouth grew moist as I imagined our tongues touching.
    “I’m glad you’re not Greek,” he sighed. “I want … not Greek. I want … white skin … green eyes … long … black … hair.” With each pause he inched closer to my lips. I couldn’t move. As if my skin had been turned to stone. All I could hear was the gentle roar in his breath. As he reached the closest point before touching my lips he whispered, “Can I taste your lipstick?”
    In the taxi home that night, the first song I heard on the radio was “I Want You” by Elvis Costello. And as it turned out, it was Alex’s all-time-favorite song.
     

Three
     
    At Hilton Hotel. Biting nails. Reciting presentation in head with the notes of guitar scales. Standing by lecture hall door, fingers twisted behind back, toes clenched in black baby doll slip-ons. Changed shoes in the car. Watching freshly dry-cleaned suits, worn by impassive breathing corpses, walk by. Black pencil skirts and dusty patent leather high-heeled shoes on Stepford Wife splendor. Clop. Clop. Clopping. Past me like old slides. Bus boys with crisp white shirts and ugly yellow ties. Upper-class ladies in frilly blouses who eat with their mouths closed at all times, and wait for the thirty-second mouthful before swallowing, and pat their lips with expensive linen napkins.
    A piece of nail gets lodged between my central incisors. I try to pry it out, exposing my teeth like a growling dog, but failing because I have no nails left to pry it out with. Middle-aged man in navy blue tailored trousers and pink shirt with collar opened three buttons down, grins at me in a ridiculing manner. His gold chain glistens amidst his thick dark chest hair as he passes below a chandelier. Rich bastard. Trying to follow trends. I bring my arms down to my sides and close my mouth, pushing the nail through my teeth with my tongue. Grimacing