Blue

Baby blues

Blue

His baby blues are shadowed by his protruding, bushy brows, making his every glance seem darker than probably intended. Through his lips runs a faded white scar, and it stretches with his mouth as he frowns. He's plopped down on the stool beside me, camo-clad thighs spread and one large hand resting between them, the other on the bar holding a beer. On his right ring finger is a dirty gold ring, and his thick thumb is twirling it around aimlessly.


“What's with the camo? Stuck in the late 90s?” I ask, and he says,


“Stuck in the army”, before wrapping his scarred lip around the beer bottle spout.


“Oh,” comes from me. I really should have picked up on that, I think. And I tell him that, I say, “I really should’ve picked up on that,”


And he grunts and says, as he lowers the bottle, “Ex-army, though. Retired, but not really out. It’s stuck with me.” Another beer-sip. “At least my husband used to say that.”


I immediately stop myself from exclaiming ”husband!?”, and opt for “Used to?” instead. Not the time for my inner biases to reveal themselves.


Presumably off the look on my face, ex-military-gay-guy says, “Caught you off guard, did I?” The look on my face screams “yes!”.


Still dumbfounded, I repeat my earlier “Used to?” and he sighs out,


“Yeah, used to.” He glances darkly at me, though I’m not sure if it’s on purpose or just because of the aforementioned protruding-brow-shadow situation. He sighs again and mutters, “It’s a long story.”


Shuffling my stool closer, I mumble, “I like stories,” and prop my elbows on the bar, staring into his dark, shadowed face.


“You’re not getting a damn monologue out of me,” He huffs out, but he makes no move to get up or shuffle back out of the distance I closed in on him.


Still trying to get a glimpse of the blue I swear I saw earlier, “I guess I’ll have to get it out of you piece by piece,” and finally his eyes meet my stare, just half a second, light blue and soft among the hardened features that make up the rest of his face.


---


His steps are synced with mine, heavy and crunching the gravel beneath our shoes rhythmically. The chatter of the bar is fading further and further behind us, until all I hear is that crunch, crunch, crunch.


“How long have you been without your husband?”


A huff. “Straight to interrogation, huh?”


“Yeah, well, I’m curious.” I try to catch his gaze, but it flickers away from me, “You can’t blame a man for being curious.”


“Suppose not.” He looks to his hand, as if expecting to find a bottle, clenching his hand and blinking when he doesn’t. “Six years.”


“That’s quite a while.”


“I know.”


A pause in conversation as he just sighs and looks down, watching his feet moving, one after the other. I watch them, too, and they seem almost like they’re trying to pull him into the ground. Like every step is a step away from drowning in gravel. My eyes travel back up to his face, but it’s not changed, and he’s still watching his feet.


“You said it’s a long story.”


“Yeah, ‘cause it is.” His head turns to look at me, briefly, but I see it, before he’s back to his step-watching. “I also said you’re not getting a damn monologue out of me.”


“A conversation, then. Duologue.”


“That’s not a word.”


“Yeah, it is.”


“No, it’s not. You made it up.”


“Just because you don’t know a word doesn’t mean it’s made up.” I swear I catch a smirk at that. At the least a quirk of his lips.


“Alright, smartass. Let’s do a fuckin’ duologue.” He pauses, and this time the smirk might just border on a smile. “Shit, isn’t dialogue the word?”


My smile mirrors his, “Nah. We’re sticking with duologue.”


I think the realization that he’s agreed to give me his life story really sets in, because he’s letting out a drawn out sigh and looking to the sky like it’ll give him the right words. I try to help him out with, “Death or divorce?”


“Death.”


Yeah. I already knew that, really. “Accidental?”


“Yes.”


“Was it--”


“Stop,” he interrupts, “No interrogating.”


Right. Okay.


“Car accident. Not a crash.” That’s odd, but I keep my mouth shut. No interrogating. “It was icy. He hadn’t changed his tires. Slid off the road and rolled down the hill.”


“That’s…” Honestly, what do I say to that? “I’m sorry. Pointless thing to say, but I’m--”


“Yes, you’re sorry. I’m sorry, too.” He bites his lip, upper front teeth fiddling with the scar. “I’m the one who forgot the damn tires, actually.”


Again, I don’t know what to say to that, so, deep breath and subject change. “What’s that scar from?”


He jerks and blinks, blue eyes meeting mine for the third half-a-second tonight. “Perk of the job.”


“Fight? Uh, battle? Combat?” I look away from the amused glance he shoots at me, “I don’t know the lingo.”


“Yeah. Knuckles to the face, practically split my lip in two.” His fingers travel to his face, as if expecting to still find his lip split apart, running over the scar. “He patched me up, though.”


“Who?”


“M’ husband.” He lowers his hand, holding a clenched fist to his chest. “He was a medic.” His thumb is twirling the ring again.


“That’s quite the pair. Soldier and medic.”


Unexpectedly, that gets a gruff chuckle from him. I think. Maybe a sob. Maybe one disguised as the other.


“Yeah. Always there to patch me up.” The fist on his chest is back to being a palm and drags down his face. “Was. Always there. To patch me up.”


I feel like the air rushes out of my lungs at that, so I take a deep breath and keep walking. Crunch, crunch, crunch. He’s gone quiet now and so have I. I bet he’s watching his weighted steps again. I turn my head to catch him in the act, but I’m wrong and he’s turning his head right as I am. Finally, more than a glimpse of those blues.


“Your eyes are pretty,” I blurt out. Christ, way to change the fucking subject.


“What?”


“You heard me.”


There’s that quirk in his lips again.


---


We’re coming up on the bar again, both of us having realized at some point that we can’t just walk one way forever. I stop at the door, but he keeps walking. He keeps fucking walking and I don’t know why I care so much about a man I met twenty minutes ago, but something in me screams he’s not supposed to walk away, he’s supposed to stop with me, this isn’t how it ends.


I’d say I don’t notice my hand reaching out, but I do. I really do, and so does he. He stops and turns before I can force him to, and I say, “It doesn’t feel right for you to just go now.”


He smiles, actually smiles, and his baby blues are back on me for what I doubt is the last time.


---


I’m sitting in his car, passenger seat. His fingers are wrapped around the steering wheel, and his eyes are darting all over. Windows, rear-view and side-view mirrors.


“My turn”, he says, looking from the rear-view mirror to my eyes.


“Your turn to what?”


“Lead the duologue.” Fair enough. “Why come up to me at the bar?”


“Saw you twirling your ring. Three possible reasons for that. Cheater, divorced, or widower.”


A quiet chuckle escapes him, and this time I’m almost certain it’s not a hidden sob. “Yeah? How would you know?”


“I’m one of the three.”


That stops his darting eyes, and they lock onto my face. “Which one?”


“Take a guess.”



“I’m hoping, for my sake, divorced or widower.”


“Why not cheater?”


“You always ask this many questions?”


“You’ll get used to it.” I smile, and hope his eyes are still on me and not the road, so he catches it. “And I’m not a cheater. Divorced.” He opens his mouth, but I stop him, “Answer my question first.”


His lips are back together, and his teeth are fiddling with the scar. “Hoped you weren’t a cheater ‘cause if you have a history, you might,” Holy shit, is he flustered? “You might, y’know, do it again.”


“To you?”


He clears his throat, the road, windows and mirrors very interesting once again. “Not necessarily.”


Right. “Good thing I’m not a cheater, then.” I mumble, leaning back in the seat a bit and watching the passing trees. “Is it cool if I adjust the seat?”


“Uh, yeah. Sure.”


“Alright,” as I lower the back and bring down the headrest, he says,


“So, divorced.” I can tell he’s trying to keep his eyes on the road, trying to hide the curiosity in his tone.


“Yeah, divorced.”


“Come on, give me more than that.” Instead of just glimpsing, he turns his head and looks at me, “You owe me, at this point.”


A soft chuckle huffs out of me, and I know he’s right. “Yeah, alright,” my forehead presses against the window, and condensation forms from my sigh. “It was seven years ago. Wife left me for some aspiring tech-company-guy.” Huff. “I know, real original.” I mutter, my finger now drawing shapes and swirls in the dew on the glass.


“You still hung up on it?”


“Nah. Ancient history.” I see his reflection smile, and can’t help but smile too.