He wasn't pissed or angry. Nowhere near as angry as I've seen him before. No, Jason was just irritated. This...guy. This half-faced, jigsaw puzzle of a person had taken his seat, next to his girlfriend, and rested his meaty ass on his gloves. Each of Jason's hands held a draft beer, each surface as smooth as glass, and he just stared that the back of this stranger's head.
Eventually, his girlfriend turned to him and mouthed the words, "I'm sorry." She didn't want this interloper sitting next to her. She wanted to be next to Frisbie, to feel his energy and to bath in his animal magnetism. She was just a girl, with the same desires as any of the girls in the bar. But she was special, because Jason graced her, allowed her the privilege of holding his hand. Jason softened his expression when their eyes meet and hander her both beers, then pulled another chair to their table and didn't say anything.
The other people at the table, friends of friends, they must have known the stranger. He was talking to them and they were responding, disgust well hidden. The man wouldn't leave willingly, Jason decided. But Jason wasn't going to destroy this man. Not here, in a crowded bar, next to his girlfriend. He didn't want to cover her in blood, then sleep next to a girl who smelled of death. No, he was going to be a man, a gentleman, and solve this problem without raising his fists.
So Jason sat, passing the brief time with small talk, meaningless filler until the misshapen stranger faced him. And there it was. Jason's perfect, radiant brown eyes bored into the other's uneven, milky orbs. There was tension. Oh god, was there tension. The bar grew silent without knowing why and everyone at that particular table was watching the invisible battle that took place in the space of their gaze.
Then the stranger's pug-nose began to bleed, and he gasped while the collective world exhaled. A thin stream of blood rounded his hair lip as he looked around, bewildered, before getting up and disappearing into the smoky night. Jason stood, silently, like a prince who had just reclaimed his long-lost throne, and walked back to his original seat. The gloves were warm but he carefully placed them back in his coat pocket and sat down, aware that dozens of eyes were analyzing him, studying his fluid movements and burning his image into retinas for the lonely nights that they were sure to have. And, as soon as it had begun, it was over. The conversation started back up and people were talking about their lives as if nothing unusual had happened. In a way, nothing unusual really did happen. It was just another night at the bar with a man named Jason Frisbie.
