Last Call
She always ordered the same drink. He always pretended not to notice when she stayed late.
Her drink was a negroni, heavy on the orange. She sat at the far end of the bar every Friday, and every Friday at last call she was still there, turning the peel around the rim of her glass.
He was the bartender. He had rules about regulars. She was the reason for most of them.
“Last call,” he announced one Friday, wiping down the bar in front of her. “You know the drill.”
“One more,” she said. “Make it worth the wait.”
He made it slowly, aware of her watching his hands. When he set it down, she didn’t reach for the glass. She reached for his wrist.
“Do you ever get tired of watching everyone else have fun?” she asked.
“I have fun.”
“Liar.” She smiled. “Your fun left an hour ago with the couple in the corner.”
He laughed despite himself. The bar was empty now except for them, the chairs already up on the tables, the neon sign buzzing.
“You always stay late,” he said.
“You always let me.”
She stood, and instead of heading for the door she walked around the bar — into his territory — and stopped close enough that he could smell the orange on her fingers.
“Teach me something,” she said.
“Like what?”
“Whatever you’re best at.”
He considered the bottles, the shakers, all the professional answers. Then he took the glass from her hand, set it down, and kissed her instead — slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world and every intention of using it.
She made a small sound against his mouth and pulled him closer by the front of his shirt.
“The back room,” she whispered, “or your place. Pick fast, bartender. I’m done being patient.”
He locked the front door, flipped the sign, and killed the neon. The bar went dark except for the low glow over the bottles.
“My place,” he said. “It’s closer than you think.”
“Then stop talking,” she said, “and take me there.”
Some drinks you order. Some you become.