sandy at the Can

Her name was Sandy and she was a waitress in a seaside bar just like in the Springsteen song. This was in Maine however not New Jersey, anyhow she was one of hundreds of woman who had frequented my restaurant over the years, flirting was my maine occupation, I think it was the only reason I ran the place. She was about 5'4" with long wild dark hair that draped over her shoulders, the kind of hair a man would gladly lose his hands in. Her face had a drawn, pinched in look like she was continually trying to solve pi or something, but when she smiled everything unpinched and she was quite pretty. I won't go on about her body except to say it was fine also, a man would gladly lose his hands there too!

Sandy worked at the local watering hole a place called "The can", but we all called it the Trash Can as in "man I got trashed at the Can last night." It was a saturday night in November and it had been a slow night, it was time for some refreshments. The Can is a tight little place with a low tin ceiling the cigarette smoke just sits there with the patrons, on a busy night it looks like a fog bank in there. I sat at the bar drinking an ale Sandy was working the room. We exchanged smiles every time she passed which was all you could do as talking was nearly impossible over Greenday and Zepplin blasting out of the jukebox. After an hour I needed to clear my lungs and let my ears stop ringing , so I stepped out the back door. As I sucked in cold air I could smell a whiff of Columbia, there is always a joint passing around behind the dumpster on a saturday night. I was considering intercepting that joint when Sandy came out the door looking for some air of her own. We passed the usual lame conversation, "busy tonight, smokey in there" when some more people came out the back. She moved closer to me allowing them room to get by, I put my hand on her arm and since she didn't object I slid it down to her hip. She leans into my hip and we kiss. She moved around in front and pressed her body against me, her warmth is amazing on a cold night. The taste of her mouth is sour and strange the way most first kisses are. Her hair in my face smells of cigarettes, beer and sweat, strangely arousing. At closing time she exits the Can in a burst of noise and smoke, I am waiting. She climbs in my truck and slides over next to me. back at my place the love making is nervous, awkward, and totally wonderful.

Later she sleeps face down hair splayed on my pillow, the street lamp throws stripes across her back. As I stroke her hair I feel a tinge of sadness, in the morning will come more love making followed by a glorious shower, then breakfast, [the waitresses at Jordans always know who is fucking who], but nothing will ever match last night. Behind the Can we had a perfect moment, never to be revisited except in memory. Sometimes the best comes first.