She doesn’t ever see me. I sit at the end of the bar each day, listening to her gibber away excitedly to the bartender. They went to school together in Prague. She has long red hair, and it curls just at the end where it reaches her waist. She wears a jean jacket, with little buttons on the collar and pockets pinned on so chaotically that it looks planned. She’s been here two months and every day I sit there and I see her, and the ice in my whiskey melts.

I started coming in two months ago when I moved here from Paris, I had met Nadia in Prague during my University days. The first day I saw him, he was laughing at a joke one of the bar backs told him. Nadia tells me all about him. He’s a writer from New York, he moved to Chicago two years ago to work at a publishing house as an editor. His eyes are green, not brown like the light makes them. He really likes his whiskey, but sometimes he orders Cosmo’s and pretends that they are for a date in the back, where he sips them himself like a guilty child.

I want to ask her name. I always want to ask but Nadia just smiles at me when she comes in. Bartenders always know, they can see it in your eyes. She told me once, “She doesn’t speak a lick of English so go learn some French and ask her yourself”. I tried one of those 10 minute a day courses you can buy for twelve bucks from a Barnes & Noble. I used it once and fell asleep.

He came over and sat by me the other day. There was a small jazz band playing and I guess he couldn’t hear too well all the way at the crook of the bar. He looked at me and smiled quickly. Nadia was right his eyes are green. He’s got a five o’clock shadow, and I can see a small knick on his jaw. He smells like burning wood, and he’s barely touching his whiskey. I keep looking over to him, but he’s always looking at the band, even though I can sometimes feel his eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled this much before.

I’ve been sitting at the other end of the bar a lot lately. Jim is mad and say’s I’ve betrayed him for Nadia’s bar keeping services. Sorry Jim. You don’t have red hair and a shy smile, nor do you smell of fresh cut apples. She’s smiling at me and I am smiling at her. I am holding her small hand as the small jazz band plays.  She leans over to me, and places her head on my shoulder. “Mon nom est Cara.” She says softly. I say to her, “Je t’aime Cara.”

We are in love.