Congratulastions on Frequenting Your Neighborhood Bar!

The bartender won’t say your name. He doesn’t know it. You don’t know his either. That’s not part of the compact you two have established, the tacit agreement of this place. So he’ll nod and you’ll nod back and he’ll slip you a three dollar whiskey without either of you saying a word and you’ll slip a five dollar bill over to him and he’ll slide two dollars back and you’ll take one.

Then it’ll be done. You’ll step away from the bar and look around until you find her. She’ll be in the corner where the light is lowest, her head resting against the table. Her face will be entirely obscured by her hair, but you imagine that she’s frowning, wondering on some level where you are. You’ll slip in next to her and give her a gentle shake.

“Wake up,” you’ll whisper in her ear, the temptation to nibble on it already palpable.

“Huh?” she’ll reply, rearing her head in such a way that it just barely misses yours. She’ll look around, baffled, her eyes adjusting to the now unfamiliar act of sight. There will be deep bags underneath them, as if she hasn’t slept in days, and a slightly mad look to her as if she fears the act of waking as much as she fears dying alone.

“How’s it going?” you’ll say, your mind filling with the desire to take her back to your place and wash her hair for hours. Her eyes will suddenly flash with recognition. Dim at first, then bright, then dim once more as she plays back the last month and a half to herself.

“You holding?” she’ll say, licking her lips.

You’ll shake your head. “Not yet, my lady love.” She’ll bite her lip and tuck her hair back behind her ear.

“Then its twenty for some time, fifty for the night. Or free if you can find some crank before the night is over.”

You’ll nod, then pick up your whiskey and stride across the bar to where Roscoe is sitting, watching the entire exchange. He’ll shake his head as you sit down.

“I’ll never understand why the two of you don’t just make it official,” he’ll say, already withdrawing a baggie from his coat. “Forty,” he’ll say, the baggie clenched in his fist.

“Such is the price of love,” you’ll say, setting down your whiskey and withdrawing a sweaty twenty and a pair of ruffled tens and sliding them over to him. He’ll hand the baggie over to you and smile, sipping his beer.

“Go get her, tiger,” he’ll say, winking at you as you get up to leave, heading back to her corner where her eyes have already brightened and she looks at you as if you were the only man she’s ever loved in the whole wide world.

Congratulations on Frequenting Your Neighborhood Bar!