David

DAVID

Dave would sit at the bar for hours, in silence, most of the time. Every now and again, I’d catch him looking over and his mouth would twitch weirdly, somewhere between a smile and a grimace. He'd nod for another drink- Bella, he'd say, Bella, here, and lift his empty glass. Dave spoke like the old south London geezer that he was, every now and again he would talk in cockney French or Italian (for effect), and he'd never say his H's - it's fucking erriffic I’m telling ya, he'd bark about this and that. He'd manage to develop over time a bond with all the girls at the bar- he'd flaunt amongst them, one had a arm round his neck, whilst another would be leaning close to him, confiding to him the latest of her love life. In fact the most of us did. Dave dug the gossip, and Dave fended our hearts like a night in armors, he looked over us girls with care. I guess he wasn’t a bad judge of character. I often wondered what kind of young man he was. Would he have been one of those charmers? Dave used to be a smuggler, and he passed over the boarder’s large quantities of marijuana worth the skin of a princesses’ ass. He'd gone to jail, lost a finger to an enemy; he'd loved a woman who drove him crazy. And now and then, he cooked us lavish and hearty dinners with crayfish and salmon. He drunk at the counter, always on the same side, watching us go through the motions. He brought the meals in carefully packed take away boxes, I knew he thoroughly enjoyed it when we hugged and kissed him thank you. I loved Dave dearly. His presence reassured me, and consoled me as he'd hug me and say,

“ I’m ere. I’m looking out for ya.”

 When I was sad he'd sit by me, and wouldn't leave until he knew I was all right.  Of course as a man too old for young girls but still a man, I’m sure he enjoyed the privilege of having us butturfling around him that way- he never made it a secret that we were a butter sweet eye candy to him- in all innocence. In all sincere innocence Dave took on a protective and friendly role, and never denied himself the right to look and appreciate the beauty of the devil. However. Dave had some cancer particular to men- he spoke about it little and I remained unsure of the details- but it had resulted in the ablation of a testicle. I had no idea how that had affected his psyche, he laughed about it, but I knew it was in his character to laugh things of.  Maybe it was that form of impotence, in a way, that enabled that closeness between us- maybe it was what permitted these relationships, in an unspoken way of course. I'd think about how he felt about it. How did it affect the man he was? I knew he was sick, but well enough to drink. 

When he put an arm round my waist, I’d just lay my neck on his shoulder tenderly, like a little girl. I could be his little baby girl, in all safety.

I knew he did look out for me. And the evenings he didn't come in, I’d catch myself wondering if he was alright.