Page 2 of Side Piece

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” I quickly say.

The bartender turns to me. “Honey, it’s a bar. Nothing that’s said here is sacred or secret.” Then the tall, intriguing stranger laughs at the bartender, as do I. He looks back at the man. “You’ll want what she’s having, I suspect.”

I think the bartender’s playing wingman. I’m still holding my glass with both hands, so he can’t see its contents.

He turns to me and says to the bartender, never breaking eye contact with me, “Depends on what’s she hiding.”

I smile and enjoy the moment. “Take a chance. Let it be a surprise. Have what I’m having.”

He taps his temple. “Al, do you think I can trust her?”

I KNEW IT WAS A ONE-SYLLABLE NAME.

“Don’t consult. Just leap,” I encourage him. I’m not sure where this bold flirting is coming from, but I’m drawn to him. And I want to know if he feels the connection as well.

“Al, I’ll have what she’s having and…” he turns back towards me, “...fill her up too.” His cropped copper brown hair looks like it’s styled for the least amount of annoyance. That he can’t be bothered. It’s a bit shorter than the last time I saw it, and his golden hazel eyes don’t translate in pictures, but his demeanor seems to be the same as I imagined.

Al puts a glass in front of him and pulls out a bottle of Booker’s bourbon. A wide grin breaks across his face, and Al’s. “How did she know it’s my favorite?”

“Lucky guess.” He’s funny. Al hands me my next drink, and I finish my current one. I’ll go upstairs after this one. He lifts his glass in my direction. We sip, and both revert to our phones. I send a quick text to someone I barely know and really don’t want to know better.

Then I pull out my pen and scribble novel notes on a receipt from lunch. I need to get home to buy a bunch of my favorite little notebooks in the best little store in Philly, so this endless parade of scrap notes can end. I put the receipt along with the used cocktail napkin into my purse.

He puts his phone down and looks at me. “Why are you here?”

“DC? Or Al’s bar?” I muse.

“Both,” he counters.

“How do you know I don’t live here?” I ask.

“DC or Al’s bar?” he jokes.

“Both.” I use his logic.

“You’re quick.” He nods to me.

“As are you. But I have the advantage of being on my third drink, and the polite curtain has dropped a bit,” I say.

“You use words well.”

“Thank you.” I especially enjoy the compliment coming from him.

“You haven’t answered me.” He turns his broad shoulders towards me and waits for my answer.

“Work function in town and staying the night at this hotel. But I do love a good hotel bar. They feel different from other bars. People are more apt to be friendly because they know it’s a temporary relationship. If you’re at a normal bar and speak to a regular, they don’t know if you just moved into the neighborhood, so they’re less likely to strike up a conversation. People like things to stay the same. But a hotel bar’s status quo is change.”

“That’s an extraordinary observation. I’ve spent my fair share of time in hotel bars but never thought of it that way. But you’re absolutely right.”

“And what are you doing here?” I inquire back.

“Al.”

“Elaborate, please.” I sip my cocktail as he faces me. His eyes are sincere and roaming. I uncross and re-cross my legs towards him, and he studies them. Intriguing. I’m glad I took the time to shave.

“He was a bartender at a place near where I used to work for a couple of years. He started working here because the money was better, and he knew his way around a craft cocktail. I only occasionally work in town these days, so I come here whenever I can.”

“But you don’t work here all the time?”