The Lamplighter glowed — a fond memory,
soft at the edges,
easy to miss if you weren’t looking.
Busy at noon,
businessmen seizing burgers and brews.
Bustling at four,
friends cracking pressure valves and unwinding.
But after dark the mood plunged,
the crowd dwindled.
An aging woman writing in her journal.
Two solitary strangers.
And Theo, the bartender,
serving drinks
and polishing glasses.
The bar was dim,
lit only by a few wall sconces,
votives on the tables,
and a lone streetlamp across the lane.
The tavern was older than time
and it smelled —
like cobwebs with dabs of whiskey
and orange peel perfume
playing gently
around its pulse points.
Every night the ritual played like a script.
He walked in at eight o’clock,
hoisting himself onto the stool
closest to the door.
His bourbon neat appeared
without his even asking.
He was not handsome,
but his features were compelling.
She arrived at a quarter after
and headed for the far end of the bar,
her dress swooshing softly,
heels clicking
as she passed him.
Theo had her scotch and water waiting
before she could sit.
The only conversation:
the hushed whispers
of two young lovers
sharing a secluded table
and a single beer.
Her face was unremarkable —
yet honest, and kind.
He lifted his glass,
took a long draw.
She sipped hers slower —
a meditation.
He traced his finger
around the rim of his glass.
She twirled the swizzle
in hers,
a dance.
Smooth jazz played on the sound system,
quiet,
in the background.
He tapped his fingers
in time to the music.
She swayed
in graceful accompaniment.
Theo was the only one who noticed them —
never exchanging glances,
yet each stealing glimpses
when the other wasn’t looking.
He peered at them
over the readers low on his nose,
continuing to polish glasses
as he watched their dance unfold.
Sometimes, Theo thought,
some stories speak louder
without words.
His eyes sparkled.
A smile played
at the corners of his mouth.
They’d never have believed him
if he told them
the story he saw
build night after night.
Every now and then,
their eyes would meet.
His gaze wouldn’t falter.
He would nod in her direction.
She would raise her glass —
just a bit —
and smile.
One night
the choreography failed them.
He arrived at eight
to find the lights out,
the door barred.
A sign on the glass read simply:
“Closed. Gone out of business.”
He froze.
Stupefied.
His mind reeled.
He was still standing there
fifteen minutes later.
Then —
click click.
Her heels.
He looked up.
She was standing beside him,
reading the sign.
She stood close enough
he could smell her perfume —
light, delicate —
and it made his head swim.
They both took one last look
at the sign on the door.
He offered her his arm.
She took it.
And together
they walked
arm in arm
across the lane
to an establishment
named simply:
Bellwether’s.