Short Story: “Reunion”


A Rett Bonneville Short-Short Story

By Anne M. Freeman©

The bar was not one I performed in, gratefully.  Hanging out in a bar where I perform is like going back to work, not to play. Shanna asked me to meet her there at 10:00 p.m. for a surprise. She was my old roommate at boarding school and we’ve stayed friends ever since.  An evening with Shanna is normally a good time.

Shanna sat at the bend in the long mahogany bar, facing the door. When she saw me, she waved me over with frantic excitement.

“Oh, I was SO afraid you’d bail on me tonight, Rett. I’m SO glad you came,” she said after the obligatory air kisses. Her face was all smiles and dimples. I sat on the bar stool next to her, facing the bar.

“What has you in such a state, Shanna?” I asked, hoping her giddiness wasn’t about the “surprise.”  That made me a little nervous as to what she had up her sleeve.

Ignoring my question, she appraised me with her fashionista eye.

“You look gorgeous, Rett. That moss-green sweater is just killer with your long, dark hair. I’ll order us some drinks.”  Hmmm … why does how I look matter tonight, I wondered.  Shanna waved at the attractive bartender, who responded to her waving hand with a big tip-me-well smile.

“We’ll have two Golden Cadillac’s,” she said with her give-me-a-reason-to-tip-you-well smile.

Golden Cadillac?  Not sure I know that one.” He frowned slightly.

Shanna rolled her eyes with mock consternation.

“One ounce Galliano, two ounces of white crème de cacao, one ounce of light cream, blended on low with about a half cup of crushed ice.” She flicked her lashes at him. “And, sprinkled with nutmeg.”

He smiled. “I think I can handle that,” he said, and started searching for the glasses.

When Shanna tore her eyes off the barman, I asked, “What’s up with the drinks? We haven’t had a Golden since boarding school.”

“Well,” she said, looking slyly behind me. “The reason is standing right behind you.”

I didn’t have to look behind me. In the mirror, I saw my old boarding school flame, Kent MacCumberland, the son-of-a-bitch I’d dumped after he decided what it was I really wanted.  He spun my stool around, wrapped one arm around my waist and shoved his crotch between my legs, while the other hand grabbed the back of my head as he planted a wet one on my mouth. I struggled free, kneed him in his crotch, and punched his o-shaped mouth that had opened with sudden pain.

The bartender set our drinks down in front of us during the ensuing pandemonium at the bar.

“Thanks for the drink, Shanna,” I said, downing the sweet creamy liquid before slipping off my stool and stepping over the now prone Kent. “And don’t forget to tip the bartender,” I called back at her, still sitting at the bar, drink in hand, and shock on her face.

It wasn’t her fault. Shanna never knew about the date rape episode with Kent. I waited until I was out the front door before shaking my throbbing hand, and began laughing and crying at the same time on my way to my car. The sweet drink masked the bile in my throat, and the pain in my hand was worth it. I’d have to thank Shanna for that when she called.  When I started up my car, my cell started buzzing.


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