her lips parting ever so slightly to allow the liquid in. Her eyes squinted briefly and her tongue licked remaining drops of moisture from her lip before she put the glass back down. She hardly glanced at John. He wished she would say something, allow him some sort of segue into conversation.
He wished he'd been a bartender in another generation, when customers would gush their troubles to their neighborhood barkeep, drinking their cares away in the company of the world's greatest therapists. Bartenders didn't judge. They listened with the intensity of a lover, and tipping was much cheaper then paying a shrink's bills. People didn't want that anymore. Now, drinking was more about gratification than catharsis. Bartenders were social customs officials; only dealt with so they could stamp your passport and move you along.
John poured himself a soda. He stepped aside as Enzo filled the beer trough with ice. Enzo's three main jobs were to refill the ice buckets, carry cartons of liquor up from the basement, and change kegs when they ran dry. A cork-shaped Hispanic man with close-cropped hair, Enzo's neck was tattooed with a jewel-encrusted necklace that John couldn't believe when he first saw it. The markings were beautifully intricate: blue and red beads threaded around a thin white chain, the ink vivid and colorful. He even had a metal clasp tattooed on the back of his neck. John shuddered to think of the pain he must have endured to get it.
Sipping his water, John noticed a woman enter the bar, glance around furtively, then head towards the counter. He generally remembered the evening regulars, especially attractive women, and was positive he hadn't seen her before. She was about five-eight—with heels—and wore a camel-colored overcoat. Her brown hair was done in simple but attractive curls. She was cute, but not immaturely so. John made an effort not to stare. Her eyes were friendly, her mouth open as if expecting conversation. John held his breath, hoping she'd take a seat. She stopped before the bar and looked around. Dismayed, John's eyes sunk. Her body language said she was meeting someone. Her eyes rested on him for a moment—he thought he glimpsed a discreet smile—then she walked over and sat down. John tried not to smile as he took a cloth and buffed the wood in front of her.
“What can I get you?” he asked, glancing at his reflection in her eyes.
“I'll have a glass of red wine. Merlot if you've got it.” She laid her handbag on the counter, unaware or uncaring of the thousands of wiped-over beer stains and cigarette ashes that had been ground into the woodwork. John took a glass, popped the cork on a bottle and filled it nearly to the top. He felt a tingling sensation in his scalp. The smell of the wine made him lightheaded. He breathed through his mouth until he was finished pouring, then set the glass on a coaster. He took her ten-dollar bill and gave back three wrinkled singles. She put two of them in her pocket and left one on the counter.
John fetched a beer for a man in a white t-shirt and bandana, adding a shot of “Somepin' strong” to the ale per his request. While he poured he watched the new girl in the mirror as she delicately sipped her wine. Maybe, he thought (hoped?), she was here alone.
As he walked towards the other end of the bar, his mind distracted for a moment, she spoke.
“You need a plant,” she said, looking right at him. John whipped around.
“Excuse me?”
She smiled. “You know, a plant. Green thing with leaves. There are too many dark colors in this bar, blacks and brown. The place looks like a swamp. A plant would really brighten it up.” She took another sip and smiled self-consciously, as though her suggestion may have been inappropriate. “Just my opinion.”
“Unfortunately that's not up to me,” John replied, pointing to the other end of the bar where Artie sat thumbing a magazine. “That guy over there owns the place, and if it were up to him we'd be
He wished he'd been a bartender in another generation, when customers would gush their troubles to their neighborhood barkeep, drinking their cares away in the company of the world's greatest therapists. Bartenders didn't judge. They listened with the intensity of a lover, and tipping was much cheaper then paying a shrink's bills. People didn't want that anymore. Now, drinking was more about gratification than catharsis. Bartenders were social customs officials; only dealt with so they could stamp your passport and move you along.
John poured himself a soda. He stepped aside as Enzo filled the beer trough with ice. Enzo's three main jobs were to refill the ice buckets, carry cartons of liquor up from the basement, and change kegs when they ran dry. A cork-shaped Hispanic man with close-cropped hair, Enzo's neck was tattooed with a jewel-encrusted necklace that John couldn't believe when he first saw it. The markings were beautifully intricate: blue and red beads threaded around a thin white chain, the ink vivid and colorful. He even had a metal clasp tattooed on the back of his neck. John shuddered to think of the pain he must have endured to get it.
Sipping his water, John noticed a woman enter the bar, glance around furtively, then head towards the counter. He generally remembered the evening regulars, especially attractive women, and was positive he hadn't seen her before. She was about five-eight—with heels—and wore a camel-colored overcoat. Her brown hair was done in simple but attractive curls. She was cute, but not immaturely so. John made an effort not to stare. Her eyes were friendly, her mouth open as if expecting conversation. John held his breath, hoping she'd take a seat. She stopped before the bar and looked around. Dismayed, John's eyes sunk. Her body language said she was meeting someone. Her eyes rested on him for a moment—he thought he glimpsed a discreet smile—then she walked over and sat down. John tried not to smile as he took a cloth and buffed the wood in front of her.
“What can I get you?” he asked, glancing at his reflection in her eyes.
“I'll have a glass of red wine. Merlot if you've got it.” She laid her handbag on the counter, unaware or uncaring of the thousands of wiped-over beer stains and cigarette ashes that had been ground into the woodwork. John took a glass, popped the cork on a bottle and filled it nearly to the top. He felt a tingling sensation in his scalp. The smell of the wine made him lightheaded. He breathed through his mouth until he was finished pouring, then set the glass on a coaster. He took her ten-dollar bill and gave back three wrinkled singles. She put two of them in her pocket and left one on the counter.
John fetched a beer for a man in a white t-shirt and bandana, adding a shot of “Somepin' strong” to the ale per his request. While he poured he watched the new girl in the mirror as she delicately sipped her wine. Maybe, he thought (hoped?), she was here alone.
As he walked towards the other end of the bar, his mind distracted for a moment, she spoke.
“You need a plant,” she said, looking right at him. John whipped around.
“Excuse me?”
She smiled. “You know, a plant. Green thing with leaves. There are too many dark colors in this bar, blacks and brown. The place looks like a swamp. A plant would really brighten it up.” She took another sip and smiled self-consciously, as though her suggestion may have been inappropriate. “Just my opinion.”
“Unfortunately that's not up to me,” John replied, pointing to the other end of the bar where Artie sat thumbing a magazine. “That guy over there owns the place, and if it were up to him we'd be
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