Anton turned back to making the drink. He smiled to himself while listening, fascinated, as the woman thwarted the man’s gross advances. He risked adding a dash of bourbon to the mixture. The bourbon would cut the usual sickly sweetness of the cocktail typically ordered by sorority girls with a low alcohol tolerance and give it a bite appropriate to Isabella’s impressive cut-the-bull-shit self-defense. Admittedly he had underestimated her at first. He assumed the corporate get-up and unceremonious drink order indicated another snob yuppie from uptown with a pretty face. He turned back towards the pair as he shook the mixture with crushed ice. Anton gazed unassumingly at the pair, watching Isabella push away the man. He first placed a crystal ash tray in front of her. A wordless indication that she indeed may smoke.
Anton placed a maroon napkin in front of Isabella, as he poured the cocktail with the other hand over fresh ice into an old fashioned glass. The glass was garnished with an orange slice and maraschino cherry with a long stem curving away from the rim. The finished cocktail was introduced to the maroon napkin. It may have been worth noting that the other patrons, the few that gathered around the bar, had black napkins in front of them. Although Anton was the only one working the bar that night, he still engaged in the little secret tradition among the bar tenders at The Devil’s Toboggan. All regular patrons of little interest received the standard black napkin. A bar tender may mark (i.e., claim, reserve, etc.) a patron or make their interest known to the other bar tenders by placing their own signature napkin in front of the individual of concern. Anton’s was maroon.
The man seemed unaffected by Isabella’s attempts to dispatch him. He laughed in a gurgling and pathetic sort of way, “Come on honey you don’t gotta be like that.”
Anton decided to intervene. He haughtily placed two shot glasses on the bar and sloppily poured two heavy shots of Jack Daniel’s. “You can buy me a drink, Hank.” He teased the man, obviously a regular, since Anton knew him by name. Hank’s attention was momentarily taken off Isabella. As he started to reach for his shot Anton pulled it away. “Nope!” He shook his index finger at the man and then slid the shot glass down the bar. It remarkably (perhaps the Devil’s work himself) skid about five bar stools down without spilling a drop. Hank eyed the other shot. Anton snatched it up and downed it without a grimace to speak of. He dropped the shot glass back onto the bar with a clink in front of him. Hank got the hint and slunk away to retrieve his shot like a scolded puppy.
“You don’t seem like a girl who needs rescuing. But since you’re a new comer here, I do have to protect your potential future business.” He pointedly used “girl” to juxtapose the notion that she was woman enough to not need rescuing. Anton liked to push people’s buttons, particularly the buttons of attractive women he was trying to impress. He was the type of man who engaged in the sort of flirting that involved witty bantering and mockery. Though a closet romantic, surreptitious glances and the like wasn’t really his thing.
Meanwhile, his phone was vibrating in his pocket.
Anton placed a maroon napkin in front of Isabella, as he poured the cocktail with the other hand over fresh ice into an old fashioned glass. The glass was garnished with an orange slice and maraschino cherry with a long stem curving away from the rim. The finished cocktail was introduced to the maroon napkin. It may have been worth noting that the other patrons, the few that gathered around the bar, had black napkins in front of them. Although Anton was the only one working the bar that night, he still engaged in the little secret tradition among the bar tenders at The Devil’s Toboggan. All regular patrons of little interest received the standard black napkin. A bar tender may mark (i.e., claim, reserve, etc.) a patron or make their interest known to the other bar tenders by placing their own signature napkin in front of the individual of concern. Anton’s was maroon.
The man seemed unaffected by Isabella’s attempts to dispatch him. He laughed in a gurgling and pathetic sort of way, “Come on honey you don’t gotta be like that.”
Anton decided to intervene. He haughtily placed two shot glasses on the bar and sloppily poured two heavy shots of Jack Daniel’s. “You can buy me a drink, Hank.” He teased the man, obviously a regular, since Anton knew him by name. Hank’s attention was momentarily taken off Isabella. As he started to reach for his shot Anton pulled it away. “Nope!” He shook his index finger at the man and then slid the shot glass down the bar. It remarkably (perhaps the Devil’s work himself) skid about five bar stools down without spilling a drop. Hank eyed the other shot. Anton snatched it up and downed it without a grimace to speak of. He dropped the shot glass back onto the bar with a clink in front of him. Hank got the hint and slunk away to retrieve his shot like a scolded puppy.
“You don’t seem like a girl who needs rescuing. But since you’re a new comer here, I do have to protect your potential future business.” He pointedly used “girl” to juxtapose the notion that she was woman enough to not need rescuing. Anton liked to push people’s buttons, particularly the buttons of attractive women he was trying to impress. He was the type of man who engaged in the sort of flirting that involved witty bantering and mockery. Though a closet romantic, surreptitious glances and the like wasn’t really his thing.
Meanwhile, his phone was vibrating in his pocket.
Bitch, I'm limited edition.
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