The Curious Case of Natalie

I vividly remember it was raining the day I met her.

I was walking down the streets of Downtown and my jacket could not do justice to keep the precipitation out. I was sprinting on the sidewalk and the raindrops made their way down the glass walls of shops. As the rain gained momentum, I clutched the collar on my jacket and turned the knob on whatever door handle I could find to seek respite from the rain.

The air inside was warm and welcoming, and I realized that I had walked into a bar. To my amazement, I was the only patron there. And, the only other person in the bar was the bartender behind the counter. She seemed to be standing on a step-stool and arranged the bottles in the bar cabinet, so I couldn’t see her face. Her blond hair was tied in a high ponytail revealing her slender body frame. She wore a black tank top and a sky blue denim that accentuated her features.

“What would you like?” She asked, her back towards me.

“Umm, maybe a beer?” I befuddled.

“That’s very generic. Would you like to narrow down?” She asked, turning her head only a little in my direction, revealing her sharp jawline. Her pale color complimented her blond ponytail.

"Do you have any recommendations?” I was still unable to make up my mind, trying to take a glance at her face, but also pretending to look away to avoid staring. I walked to the bar counter.

“If you’re cold, a beer might not be the best choice,” she chuckled. “Also, I’d expect a writer to be a little more creative.”

“Maybe I’m not a good writer, then.” I promptly replied, and then it dawned upon me. “Wait. How did you know that I was a writer?

“I know everything about you,” she said.

“You do?” I sat on one of the barstools near the counter.

“Well, anyone who wears that has got to be a writer,” she giggled, “or wants to be.”

“How do you know I’m not a wannabe?” I asked.

“Is there any such thing as an accomplished artist?” She went on.

“Hmm, I guess not.” I was at lack of words.

She stepped down from the stool, closed the cabinet and turned around, revealing her perfect face. She untied her ponytail and her straight hair fell on either sides of her face, covering her cheeks like golden curtains, not one hair out of place. She tucked them behind her ears.

“Have you decided?” She asked, she smiled a mischievous smile with her glistening straight teeth. Then, she walked around the bar counter, took a seat on a barstool next to me and poured herself a golden brown drink from a bottle. The gorgeous curled eyelashes on her almond eyes danced as she blinked and watched the drink stream into her glass.

“What are your drinking?” I asked.

“Jameson,” she answered.

“Yes?” I replied.

“You said my name, Jameson.” I muttered as she looked at me.

“I know,” she smirked. “I also know that your knowledge of alcohol is extremely limited. So, I thought of having a little fun with it.”

She pointed her index finger towards the glass and then her thumb at me, her fingers in a fist. I nodded, and she pulled another glass from behind the tray and poured Jameson in it. She pulled out two ice cubes from the ice bucket jar, added them in the glasses and slid a glass to me.

“Like what you see?” She asked, as she caught me staring at her.

“I have seen better,” I looked away, my tone unconvinced.

“How much better?”

“Not that much, really,” I confessed. This was the closest I have to come to any beautiful woman, let alone drinking with her.

“I can live with that,” she replied. “So Jameson, what brings you here?” She went on, trying to keep the conversation alive.

“The torrential rain,” I answered.

“You are not the most charming writer, are you?”

“I guess, maybe that’s why I’m not accomplished,” I frowned. “Are you allowed to drink on the job?” I tried to make an effort at the talk and immediately regretted it.

“Don’t you drink on the job?” She replied.

“I do. However, writers are not liable for it.” I argued

“Me neither,” she replied and nodded towards the door. The fact that I was looking at ‘Open’ sign made me realize that the bar was actually ‘Closed’.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I apologized, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“You seemed to need company,” she chuckled, keeping her hand on my hand that rested on the bar counter. I do not know whether it was her hand that was cold or if it was me that felt the chills.

“Most men would notice the sign before entering the bar,” I confessed.

“Most men would ask my name by now,” she batted her almond eyes and leaned close to me, firming up her grip on my hand. I nudged in the barstool, trying to avoid eye contact.

“What’s your name?”

“Natalie,” she smiled.

“Nice name,” I replied. “Nice to meet you, Ms Natalie.”

“Mrs. Natalie,” she corrected me.

“I can understand, you’re nervous because it’s your first time drinking with a woman in the bar.” She confronted.

“How did you know?” I pulled out my hand from her grip.

“I know everything about you,” she replied.

“So you have said,” I replied, irritation evident in my tone. “You didn’t mention how.”

“Because, I am a psychic, or a ghost, or a spirit,” she went on. “You’re the writer, you decide. I could be anything.”

“You think that’s funny?” I was on the edge of losing composure.

“I think Jameson’s cute,” she crossed her feet and took a sip from her glass.

I involuntarily followed her gesture and sipped on my drink.

“How much cute?” I asked.

“I have seen better,” she rolled her eyes to mock me and giggled.

The clock struck at 3pm with a loud ring.

“Oh, it’s time,” she sprang down from the barstool and walked to the door. I watched her as she walked away. However, got distracted as my cellphone vibrated in my pocket for a text. I stepped down from the stool and fished for my phone in my pocket.

“Can I help you?” A man walked in from the door on the wall besides the cabinet behind bar counter.

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” I answered. “Mrs. Natalie is taking care of my orders.”

“Are you kidding my friend?” The man gave me a weird look. “My wife died five years ago when this bar caught fire.”

I looked at the door but there was no sign of her. Also, the door was actually locked from inside and the bar was still closed.

“Take care, Jameson.” The text said, “-N.” And there was no number.