Page 11 of Mourner for Hire
He plants a fresh straw in the drink and presents it before me. I take a sip and let the flavors explode on my tongue.
“It’s essentially a mojito with blueberries to darken it and a slice of basil to add depth,” he tells me.
I take another sip. “It’s really good.”
“You like it.”
I nod. It’s not too sweet, not too strong. “It’s perfect, but I’ll be honest, I thought most bartenders hate making mojitos.”
“Bartenders who say that don’t enjoy the craft of a good cocktail,” he responds. “Plus, I like to name cocktails after people based on their personalities.”
He isn’t complimenting me necessarily—just the liquor in the cocktail—but still, my cheeks warm.
“You’re making a lot of assumptions,” I say.
“I am,” he agrees, almost smiling.
I take another sip as he turns around and starts writing my name on the chalkboard, followed by the list of ingredients. I shake my head as he turns around with a triumphant grin.
“So tell me more about volunteering,” I prompt, not wanting to part from him.
He leans over the bar now, closer than he’s been all night. His scent drifts toward me, and I hate how much I like it. He should smell like a bar, but he smells like a man who’s been chopping wood in a dewy forest and then peeled an orange and lit a vanilla candle.
“I want to tell you everything,” he says.
And he does. For the next several hours, as the patrons drift out of the bar—some walking home, others finally able todrive as the highway opens up—Dunner and I talk all night over several games of Pacman and darts until I’ve lost track of my p’s, q’s, and time.
Then, after two rounds of pool, I realize the bar is empty except for us. “Oh my God, you’re probably dying for me to leave. I’m the only one still here. I’m sorry, I don’t normally drink like this, I?—”
“Don’t worry. It’s been fun for me.”
I nod, checking the time. It’s only nine. “Is business usually this slow?”
“I’m not usually open on Mondays,” he reasons, though something like defeat passes over his expression. “I just came outside to see what all the traffic was.”
“Oh.” I realize my bladder and I are the reason he opened up the bar. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s all good. I probably would have had more than just you asking to come in. We take care of each other around here. And, as you said, I live above the bar, and pretty much everyone else in the traffic jam knows that, so they would have been knocking on my door instead of running straight into me.”
I let out a light laugh. “Sorry. It was a long drive from Portland.”
He nods.
I glance around the bar. I should go. I don’t want to keep him up or invade his space any more than I already have.
“Hey, do you think there will be any Ubers out tonight?—”
“Do you want to play another round of pool?—”
We speak at the same time, and both smile at each other as we try to decide what to say next.
“Well,” he begins. “You might be able to get an Uber in an hour, so we might as well play a round of pool.”
He chalks the tip of the pole and hands it to me. I consider my next move.
“I think I want one more drink,” I say, hopping up and sitting on the edge of the pool table.
Dunner stands between my legs, his thumb barely grazing beneath the hem of my dress. “I think we’ve had enough.”
