River of Ink Part 8

This street too was bustling.

Though darkening somewhat now, I could still easily view the nudes and beiges and browns and metallics worn by the others. What light that was still in London now was not just the whispers of twilight, but the luminance of the sky reaching towers and buildings that seemed to encapsulate this space. Their light was far greater, more powerful, more brilliant than the light of the fading sun which disappeared down into the river.

Though I had stopped for a moment to admire the beauty and opulence of this more unusual place, a total juxtaposition of ancient and contemporary, I quickly continued on my path towards the river and The Alchemist bar. In the distance, I could hear the cutting chime of a clock announcing seven, a town crier in a city of glass. Amazingly, nothing shattered. As I approached a turning in the walkway which continued down to the river, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a small sign: The Alchemist Bar and Restaurant. Keenly, I whipped around and walked with tiny, trot-like steps towards it.

It marked the entrance of a little narrow pathway down a tiny incline in the land. Following the cobblestone track, I wondered down until I got to an archway, topped by serif letters spelling The Alchemist. There was no door to push aside into this place. I walked in, somewhat surprised that this was the kind of place Owen would wish to meet me. Looking around the small two-seating wooden tables and the panelled bar area, finally scanning the stone walls for any hint that Owen was there, I turned around, thinking of where to go next.

“Miss.” A low voice called “Excuse me Miss,” I turned around to see a tall young man with chestnut waves of hair brushed back behind his ears in a smart waiter’s uniform.

“I’m sorry Miss, but I think you may be looking for the gentleman over there.” He a man sitting proudly in his chair just around the corner from the bar, beside a huge cut away in the rock, the other side of which was he river. Not responding to the waiter, I galloped off to the man. Owen.

“My Darling.” Owen stood up from his chair.

“Hello, Owen.” I smiled. “Running a little late tonight, weren’t we?” he laughed a soft laugh. Owen was one of those men that seemed to beckon a curtsey every time one met him. Undoubtably, he was related in some way or another to some aristocracy who at one time or another had wore great tall powdered wigs and huge antebellum dresses, standing fanning themselves in the vast gardens of the white columned houses I imagined they would have owned. Owen snapped me out of this daze with a sudden word.

“Darling, are you having a drink?” he whispered with that smile he performed when he laughed.

“Yes,” I took a pause. What does one drink? Being of the age I was, I had only been intoxicated once before in my life. My eyes waved over the menu for a moment before Owen pointed to an item on the menu called a Mojito and told me that was the thing to get.

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