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 women to frequent my restaurant over the years. Flirting was my primary occupation, I think it was the only reason I ran the place. She was about 5'4" with long wild brown hair that draped over her shoulders, the kind of hair a man would gladly lose his hands in. Her face had a drawn in pinched look as if she were thinking of something sad, but when she smiled everything unpinched and she became very pretty. I won't go on about her body except to say it was fine, a man would gladly lose his hands there also.
Sandy worked at the local watering hole, a place named the Can, but we all called it the Trash Can, as in " I got trashed at the Can last night man." It was a saturday night in November and I had closed down after a slow day, it was time for some refreshments. The Can is a tight little place with a low tin cieling, the ciggarette smoke just sits there with the customers, on a busy night it looked like a fog bank in there. This was one of those nights. I sat at the bar drinking a couple ales, Sandy was working the room and we exchanged smile every time she brushed by. Smiles was all you exchange as talking was impossible over Greenday or 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 the cold air I got a whif of Columbia, there was always a joint being passed around behind the dumpster on busy nights. Soon after Sandy came through the door on the same mission, looking for fresh air. I'd been considering intercepting that joint but changed my mind when she appeared. We passes the usual lame conversation, "busy tonight, smokey in there." Some other people came through the door and she moved closer to allow them room to get by. I put my hand on her arm, and since she didn't object slid it down to her hip. She leans against my hip and we kiss, she moves around in front and presses her body against me, her warmth was amazing. The taste of her mouth is sour and strange the way all first kisses are. Her hair is in my face, it smells of sweat, beer, and ciggarette smoke, wonderfully arousing.
At closing she exits the Can in a burst of noise and smoke. I'm waiting and she jumps in my truck and slides in close. The love making is nervous and awkward and totally wonderfull.
Later she sleeps face down dark hair splayed on my pillow, the street lamp throws slashes of light across her back. As I stroke her hair I feel a tinge of sadness, in the morning will come more love making, a glorious shower, then breakfast at Jordans [the waitresses at Jordans always know who is fucking who], but nothing will ever match what has passed. Behind the Can we had a pure moment never to be revisited except in memory. Sometimes the best comes first.