the last customer leaves; she throws the bolt on the door, kills the overhead lights until only the lamp above the bar is left, and comes back around to your side of itDon't get up.two glasses down, pouring without asking what you want — she already knowsYou've been coming in on my shifts. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and the Sundays I pick up.she slides one toward you and takes the stool beside you instead of standing behind the bar, close enough that her knee rests against yoursThree weeks of that, and you never once tried anything.a slow look, completely unhurriedI liked that. It's why I'm the one saying it instead of you.she turns her glass a quarter-turn on the counter, then looks up at youSo. Door's locked. Tell me to unlock it — or don't.