But I can’t rely on the bartender—if I’ve learned anything in the past few years, it’s that it’s important always to have a Plan B. So I swivel back to face the rest of the bar, looking for a potential patron. Glancing at the prices on the menu board tells me this place is probably only frequented by people with cash, and based on the amount of people in here versus out on the street, I’m going to assume I’m looking at a room of mostly regulars.
There’s a couple cozying up in one of the booths—ugh, no, I hate dealing with couples. That kind of closeness is alien and impossible to navigate, my desire always swinging from wanting to be more than a third wheel to wanting to break the whole damn bicycle. But my gaze lingers on the pair, watching the guy’s arm grasp his girlfriend’s shoulder, watching her put her hand on his face, and I feel the same pang I felt out in the street. I’m in a much smaller space now though—much closer to them than I was to the crowd outside—so if I’m not careful, I might find myself dealing with a couple all the same. I tear my eyes away.
There’s a group of guys around one of the café tables, vodka shots in each of their hands, egging each other on. I already got too much of the frat house vibe in Vegas. No thanks.
A much older woman is tucked into a corner booth, sipping on something that—based on her expression—is either very bad vodka or very strong vodka. She’s wearing what looks like expensive jewelry and definitely seems like a regular. That looks promising. I might not even need to do anything. She looks lonely—just talking to her might drum up enough sympathy for her to offer me a place to crash.
I’m contemplating my next move when the bartender says, “Here you go,” and I spin around again to see her placing a drink in front of me.
“This is on fire,” I say pointlessly, looking at the flames rising out of the alcohol and licking the edge of the glass.
“A Molotov Cocktail.” She smirks and I can feel the corner of my mouth lift involuntarily in response, the shadow of my first genuine smile in months.
“A Molotov … did you give me a bomb?” I ask patiently, nervous excitement building in me. Her grin grows wider.
“It’s one of our unique creations,” she explains. “Vodka and apple juice that we then, you know—”
“Light on fire,” I finish.
“Yep.” She smiles.
“How do I drink it?” I ask, refusing to feel stupid about being reluctant to put a flaming cocktail anywhere near my mouth.
“Like a Russian,” she deadpans.
“Well”—I swallow around my suddenly very dry mouth—“na zdorovie.”
* * *
“—and then I went to, uh, Denver,” I say. “And then … um, Salt Lake City, I think? I don’t know, somewhere in Utah. Then I spent some time in Vegas, made some money, and now I’m here.” I finish with a flourish, gesturing loosely around the bar.
Once she found out I was new in town, the bartender, Indah, asked me where I was from and I decided to give her my life story. Well, my highly edited life story. My life story for the past two years. I’ve had several drinks at this point—though not all flaming, thank god—and am feeling very amicable. She seems to be feeling amicable too, pouring me drink after drink, despite the fact that I don’t think I want anything except her attention.
“My goodness.” She smiles and shakes her head. “You’re quite the nomad, aren’t you?”
I shrug, maybe a little too big, because I catch Indah trying to stifle a laugh before she restarts her interrogation.
“Why go to so many places?” She leans forward on the bar, her duties as bartender largely over now that the only other person left in the place is the old woman in the corner booth. “Is it for work? What do you do?”
“I travel,” I say loftily.
“Doing what?” she laughs. “How old are you anyway?”
“What about you, Indah?” I pivot, putting emphasis on her name. She should know that I know it. People like when you remember their names. At least, I think they do. I like when people remember my name. It means something when someone knows who you are. “What do you do?”
I may be drunker than I thought because she gives me a blank look at that idiotic question and stretches her arm to indicate the old wood bar wrapped around her.
“Well, yeah, that.” I wave my hands in front of me and nearly knock over the several glasses that have stacked up in the past few hours. “But I mean, like, who are you? What’s your deal?”
“Well…,” she begins, smiling. She smiles so easily. I’m so envious of that. The vodka turns in my stomach and suddenly the last thing I want is to watch her smile around another adorable quip. I wish she would stop smiling, rubbing her happiness in my face.
And then, after a beat—simultaneously in slow motion and instantaneously—she stops smiling. It’s like the corners of her mouth are being pulled down by invisible strings. The frown has reached her eyes now and she’s stopped talking. She’s just staring at me with large, frightened eyes.
“Well, what?” I snap, and she flinches. Shit.
I close my eyes for a moment, focus on letting go of the envy, the bitterness. I don’t want her to not smile. I want her face to do whatever it wants to do. I do my best to drop the strings.
“Sorry, I—” She shakes her head like she’s clearing cobwebs from her hair. “I must have lost my train of thought.”
She smiles at me again, this time with shades of sadness to it.
“Can I have another?” I ask, indicating the glass in front of me. She nods, turning for the bottle, but having her back to me doesn’t break whatever strange tension I created. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten drunk. I always get sloppy when I get drunk.
“You could probably pour yourself a drink if you wanted,” I suggest, hoping maybe if she gets drunk too we can get back to the easy rapport I thought we might have been building. “This place is basically empty and I doubt anyone else is coming in tonight.”
“I don’t drink,” Indah says as she pours me more vodka.
“What?” I blanch. “A bartender who doesn’t drink? What kind of crappy punch line is that?”
She huffs a laugh as she puts down the vodka bottle and starts wiping down the bar, not meeting my eyes.
“Oh shit, is this an alcoholism thing?” I wince. “Like, is this part of your recovery or something?” I make a vague gesture at her general situation.
That brings her eyes up as she laughs heartily, the sound like a beautiful bell that clashes with the tinny sound of Fergie coming through the bar speakers.
“What kind of twelve-step program has an alcoholic working in a bar?” She giggles, and it helps me not feel stupid for suggesting it.
“Okay, then why not?” I press. “Alcohol is great.” I smile wide at her but her giggles stop and her shoulders square off defensively.
“Yeah, well, the Qur’an feels a little differently,” she mumbles.
“The Qur’an?” I ask, my fuzzy head not putting two and two together.
The movement of her arm stops for a second before she continues.