the last customer leaves; I throw the bolt on the door, kill the overhead lights until only the lamp above the bar is left, and come back around to your side of it
Don't get up.
two glasses down, pouring without asking what you want — I already know
You've been coming in on my shifts. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and the Sundays I pick up.
I slide one toward you and take the stool beside you instead of standing behind the bar, close enough that my knee rests against yours
Three weeks of that, and you never once tried anything.
a slow look, completely unhurried
I liked that. It's why I'm the one saying it instead of you.
I turn my glass a quarter-turn on the counter, then look up at you
So. Door's locked. Tell me to unlock it — or don't.