Anton’s phone was forgotten on the bar for the moment. It glowed brightly before dimming, and finally reverting to a black screen. “Have as many of those drinks as you like, but with each one just remember I’m beginning to suspect you’re 100% underage and showed me one of your sorority sister’s IDs. But hey, no judgments here. Besides, I’m hoping the more you drink the more you lose track of how obnoxious I am.”
Anton was the type of bartender who liked to maintain a steady buzz while at work. The last shot was fading, and he was noticing the subtle changes of sobriety that follows a buzz: fatigue, a bit of photophobia, hunger, and low blood sugar. He poured himself a double shot of Jack Daniels in an old fashioned glass over ice. Despite being a knowledgeable bartender with a plethora of choices, Anton rarely bothered with anything fancy or creative for himself. He would pick a liquor and brand for the night and stick with that. This habit was, of course, hypocritical given his critique of Isabella’s lack of creative drinking choices.
He eyed her as he raised the glass to his lips. He paused, the cup poised in the air before his mouth, “For what it’s worth, I prefer Isabella to Bella.” He sipped at the drink, more cautiously than Isabella at hers. He noted that she would likely require a refill soon at her rate. “Isn’t it a bit incongruent that you imply there’s nothing special about nickname privileges as if that were oh so casual, yet you ask me about myself as if we were becoming—what, friends, or something?” He raised his eyebrows as if he had just presented hard hitting evidence that she had made some foolhardy misstep in coy flirtation and he had exposed her. When really, neither were being exactly coy and his evidence was rather fragile. He sampled his drink again wondering if her dry cleaner had nickname privileges, though he decided not to bring it up lest the truth of that be used against his previous claims. “It seems your game is a bit inconsistent.”
Anton was well aware that he didn’t answer her question at all. He toasted her in return and downed at least half of his drink. The glass was returned to the bar with a clink, the remaining amber liquid sloshing around with the maneuver.“What would you even want to know about me?” He phrased that in a playfully self-deprecating way, as if to ask or suggest that it was out of order that a woman like her would be interested in the biography of a bartender of some dive.
He noticed that his sleeves had become asymmetrical at some point. The left one was unrolled a little bit. He directed his attention to clumsily remedy the profligate sleeve.
Anton was the type of bartender who liked to maintain a steady buzz while at work. The last shot was fading, and he was noticing the subtle changes of sobriety that follows a buzz: fatigue, a bit of photophobia, hunger, and low blood sugar. He poured himself a double shot of Jack Daniels in an old fashioned glass over ice. Despite being a knowledgeable bartender with a plethora of choices, Anton rarely bothered with anything fancy or creative for himself. He would pick a liquor and brand for the night and stick with that. This habit was, of course, hypocritical given his critique of Isabella’s lack of creative drinking choices.
He eyed her as he raised the glass to his lips. He paused, the cup poised in the air before his mouth, “For what it’s worth, I prefer Isabella to Bella.” He sipped at the drink, more cautiously than Isabella at hers. He noted that she would likely require a refill soon at her rate. “Isn’t it a bit incongruent that you imply there’s nothing special about nickname privileges as if that were oh so casual, yet you ask me about myself as if we were becoming—what, friends, or something?” He raised his eyebrows as if he had just presented hard hitting evidence that she had made some foolhardy misstep in coy flirtation and he had exposed her. When really, neither were being exactly coy and his evidence was rather fragile. He sampled his drink again wondering if her dry cleaner had nickname privileges, though he decided not to bring it up lest the truth of that be used against his previous claims. “It seems your game is a bit inconsistent.”
Anton was well aware that he didn’t answer her question at all. He toasted her in return and downed at least half of his drink. The glass was returned to the bar with a clink, the remaining amber liquid sloshing around with the maneuver.“What would you even want to know about me?” He phrased that in a playfully self-deprecating way, as if to ask or suggest that it was out of order that a woman like her would be interested in the biography of a bartender of some dive.
He noticed that his sleeves had become asymmetrical at some point. The left one was unrolled a little bit. He directed his attention to clumsily remedy the profligate sleeve.
Bitch, I'm limited edition.
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