An Affair With My Boss by Brendan Verville

COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Talent Writers ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.    No part of this publication is allowed to be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author.    Only reviewers are allowed to quote brief passages from this publication.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    1
     
    I only met my boyfriend Tom so that I could someday meet John Krasner, the “suave tourist” as some liked to call him.  The first night I met John, I was drinking at a torn and sundered bar at The Salvador Casino in the hills near the state line, gracing my stool as a washed out figure in the overhead lighting.  This was the bar I found myself frequenting more often during my evenings after work, just so Tom could get his two hours in at the poker table.  Far away from the action on the floor, I dreamed in the smoky haze of nearby cigarette coals, and listened to the incessant clink and chatter of a living breathing carnival at my back.
                  I had a good twenty minutes to waste before I could safely bug Tom again, so I held up a finger for another shot, wincing as if slapped.  My bartender saw my sign from the corner of his eye and nodded his bald head, dropping his task of organizing the counter to select a fresh glass.
                  None of the regulars were in tonight, leaving only a few lone stragglers to fill the tables in the far-off corners of the room, like anchors for the walls.  I recognized one of the young men at the bar, sitting at his usual stool at the far end, his arms folded over the bar and his hands in his armpits.  He looked ruffled, but dressed nicely in a collared shirt, a dark sweater vest and slacks, his tie undone.  Though I had never struck up a conversation with him, I knew he worked at the casino because he talked to all the help by their first names, and they referred to him as “Sir.”
    He was always nicely dressed, usually in a crisp V-neck sweater vest and corduroy, dark and spidery hair slicked back with his fingers.  Though the light reflected off his face with a clear accentuation of sweat, and his clothes were deliberately worn askew at the end of his day, I couldn’t help but run my eyes up and down the lines of his straight sideburns, the cut of his jaw, straggled with stubble, and his far off gaze directed at the blinking television screen mounted to the ceiling.  Around his neck hung a simple gold chain with a crucifix on it, proudly displayed above his V-neck.  I hardly ever heard him say a word, unless it was a kind salutation to the barman or a short quip to a passing waitress.
    T here was a deliberate charm to the way he leaned over the bar, head turned slightly to the side with his cool gaze as though he knew that I was watching him, his pose just for me.  He had looked my way a couple times, but I never held his eyes, swapping them for the bottom of my shot glass.  When I looked back he had returned to the television screen.
    Even with my eyes closed I could see his inverted image, with his shirt tucked in and his gold chain necklace flashing in the dim light.  Even in the dim lighting he gleamed.  Thin, crisp, and clean.
    I was jostled out of my meditation with a hand on my shoulder.  I jumped, but knew it was Tom, breathing hard at my side, and his sleeves rolled down, wrinkled and soiled with his own sweat.  I knew this was a sign of a poor night.  Tom usually knew when he was defeated sometime within the first two hours, although I had sometimes stayed late with him on his good nights, all the way to the closing of the doors.
    I looked up into Tom’s shallow face, and all he could do was sigh, his own eyes staring off at the TV screen.
    “Let’s go,” Tom said under his breath.
    “I still have a shot,” I said.  Out of the corner of my eye I noticed how the man at the end of the bar turned his head slightly, as if to listen to our conversation.
    “Well, let’s make it two,”