life with more cowbell

Ms. Lonely Hearts was first published in the short story anthology Hot and Bothered, vol.2 (Arsenal Pulp Press, 1999). The story is set in the 90s at the original location of Tango’s lesbian bar on Gloucester St., Toronto. Image from Pixabay.

Monika enters the bar. Alone. Secures her dark brown leather purse over her right shoulder. Takes a deep breath. Walks into the main room.

               She orders a beer. She barely looks at the lovely, young bartender as she hands her a five dollar bill. The server brushes a dark, curly strand from her eyes as she collects her customer’s change. “Thank you,” Monika says quietly, barely audible over the thunk, thunk, thunk of the music as she leaves a tip.

               Finding a space at the support pillar a few feet away, she fumbles in her purse for a pack of cigarettes. Hands shaking slightly, she places a cigarette in her mouth and lights it with an ornate silver lighter. Glancing cautiously around the Friday night crowd, she suddenly feels old. Monika is forty-five, but her slim build, finely sculpted features and ash blonde blunt cut easily allow her to pass as forty, or even younger. She looks at her watch, the gold band flashing as it catches the light in the dimness of the room. Ten-twenty. She’s ten minutes early.

               Taking a slow, final drag of her cigarette, she hears laughter to her left. A group of lesbians, thirty-somethings, are joking with each other. God, I feel old. Dismissing the thought, she butts out her cigarette and reaches for her beer. She looks toward the door.

               The music is loud. Contemporary dance music throbs throughout the bar as young women and a few men move their bodies on the dance floor. She watches them through the window-like opening in the wall that separates the dance area from the lounge. The air grows smokier by the minute. Absently, her right leg moves to the beat, ever so slightly. She takes a long drink.

               Ten-thirty. She looks back toward the entranceway.

               Ten thirty-five.

               Ten-forty. She peers at the women around her, briskly rubbing her right forearm. She is not cold.

               Ten forty-five. Maybe she got stuck in traffic.

               Ten-fifty.

               Ten fifty-five. Maybe I got the time wrong.

               Eleven o’clock. One last desperate glance. She’s not coming. She downs the last third of her beer. Who was I kidding? I should have known these things never work out. Monika recalls how her friends had urged her to write the personal ad: Attractive, professional GWF, 45, interested in music, theatre, movies, long walks, good food and wine seeks soulmate for friendship, poss. relationship.

               Responses had been good, but something about Karen’s letter had touched her deeply. Maybe it was that she’d found an equally solitary kindred spirit reaching out for someone too. She had called Karen and, after a friendly, hour-long chat, had arranged to meet here, on Karen’s request. At this very spot.

               It’s been over half an hour. She’s obviously not coming. Monika’s first impulse is to leave immediately. Maybe she said eleven-thirty, not ten-thirty. She lights another cigarette. Maybe I’ll meet someone else. She looks around. Fat chance. She looks in the direction of the bar and notices a petite young woman in jeans and a red shirt ordering a beer. The woman walks past her to rejoin her group in the corner. The gang of laughing lesbians Monika had noticed earlier. Did she look at me?

               A few minutes later, the woman in red moves to the other side of the room with a friend. They stop to chat near the chest high partition just outside the pool room. Monika looks at her. And looks away. When she looks again, the woman in red is looking back and smiling. Mortified, Monika looks away, but only after holding the gaze for a moment.

               The friend leaves for the pool room. From the corner of her eye, Monika notices the woman in red taking regular glances in her direction. Maybe it won’t be a complete loss, coming here tonight. Just then, another woman, entering from the pool room, approaches the woman in red. They chat for a moment and exit to the pool room together. Guess I’m too old for her. Probably for Karen too. Karen had said she was thirty-five but liked the company of older women. Hah!

               Moments later, the woman in red emerges from the pool room alone, but Monika does not notice.

               “Excuse me…,” someone addresses Monika from behind, to her left.

               Monika turns. It’s the woman in red.

               “…Would you like to dance?” she continues.

               “Oh! No. No, thank you. I’m waiting for someone,” Monika stammers. “But I think I’ve been stood up.” She laughs nervously.

               “Can I get you a refill then?” the woman in red nods toward Monika’s empty bottle.

               “I can get it!” Monika blurts, a little too defensively.

               “Okay. Cheers!”

               “What?”

               “Good luck.” And with that, the woman in red heads back to her table of rowdy friends.

               Why did I say that? She’s too young. A dance wouldn’t have hurt. But maybe it would have.

               Eleven-fifteen.

               Maybe I’ll have another beer. She lights another cigarette. She watches. She smokes. She can hardly hear the music for the noise in her head. Why did I come here? Why did I come here? Why did I come here?!

               A young, blonde femme, younger even than the woman in red, approaches her. “Hi.”

               “Hi,” Monika returns, smiling weakly.

               “Are you alone?”

               “I was just getting ready to leave.”

               “Oh. That’s too bad. I was going to ask you to dance. Maybe next time,” the sweet young thing grins coyly.

               “Maybe.”

               The girl stays in close proximity, chatting with a friend. Not understanding. Not really caring. God, I feel like a fool. Monika decides to stop responding to replies to her ad. It’s better that way. Stifling the urge to cry, she butts out her cigarette into the full ashtray and adjusts her purse securely on her shoulder. Gets her coat. And goes home. Alone.