Love On The Rocks

Chapter 1: Margarita

That Sunday evening was quiet. But then again, so were most Sunday evenings. It was hard to do business when the dreaded Monday was right around the corner. Yet, it was paradoxically enough the very reason behind the few customers' presence. For the people who did show up at the bar those evenings, it was precisely because Monday was patiently waiting to drag them back into their weekly routines, whether they spent them sitting behind a desk in a boring cubicle or working their asses off under the sun or the cold. For these people, Sunday evenings down at the Golden Cross were their salvation; and I was happy to provide it to them.

I had been lucky enough to have effortlessly found a job I enjoyed when I had come to settle in town, a few years prior; although I was attached to the state capital of Kansas, in which I had been born and raised all my life, I had decided to leave it behind after certain unfortunate changes in my life and had headed South, for the county of Wichita. There, I had found a post as a bartender in a bar called the Golden Cross, which specialized in all things Scottish, from the drinks, the aesthetic, and the tunes on the jukebox. Now, I did not have the slightest experience of working as a bartender, but my motivation and interest in the job were enough to help me get it without too much difficulty: and, since Ed, the owner, had been kind enough to give me on-the-job training, I quickly came to enjoy it.

One other thing I also enjoyed was one of the perks that came out of it: a studio apartment. The bar occupied the first floor of a building that also included apartment rooms on the upper floors, and which were specifically rented by all the workers of the bar. The studio was not the most spacious, but given I lived alone, I did not mind much: there was enough room for one person, and that was just fine by me. And one of the reasons I liked it was because of how convenient it was for me: my workplace was only one floor below my bed, and though a setup such as this may have been seen as harrowing to some, it was highly practical for me and my work hours. I worked every evening, from 9 PM to 3 AM. And yes, that included Sundays.

That Sunday evening was quiet. So much so that when the front door was pushed open around 10:30, it caught my attention right away; but not as much as the gentle sound of short heels walking the ground that followed. I looked up from what I was doing to see a middle-aged man step into the bar and walk in my direction, the direction of the counter, behind which he sat in silence. Armed with my warmest smile, I walked up to him.

"Good evening, sir." I welcomed him while cleaning an empty glass I was holding. "What can I serve you on this lonely night?"

"Lonely indeed." He answered in a neutral tone, seemingly unfazed.

I smiled further upon hearing his accent.

"Oh, British." I said with slight enthusiasm.

Upon hearing my comment, the man smiled lightly and scoffed as he lowered his gaze for just a few seconds, before he looked back up at me.

"Do you serve Craig here?"

I tilted my head a little and stopped cleaning the glass in my hands.

"Glencraig whisky?" I asked with a chuckle. "Of course, we are a Scottish bar after all."

A faint smile appeared on his face as he slightly raised his eyebrows, after which he nodded and looked back down at his hands.

"Then I'll have one, thank you."

I was still smiling warmly at him when I gently tapped on the counter with the palm of my hand.

"Coming right up."

I walked a few steps away to go grab the bottle of whisky then came back in front of him, and I poured him a glass while we exchanged smiles. After having served him, I left him to himself and went back to my shift: although the bar was on a slow day, a few customers still showed up here and there, and so the man with the Craig was left to silently drink on his own as I kept on serving customers. However, at one point, not long after I had filled his glass, I could not help but notice him pull out his phone, which he set in front of him on the counter, and spend quite some time intensely staring at something on its screen. I did not dare approach him to ask him what he was doing precisely, so I did not move from where I was standing; the one rule I always tried my best not to break when working at the bar was to not come off as intrusive or rude to the customers. Besides, as its bartender, I knew better than anyone that many of them came to have a drink with the sole intent of drowning in their sorrow and forgetting about their problems.

He's just a drifter... One of many that wash up on the shore of our bar, I thought to myself. And whatever he's looking at on his phone must be linked to the reason why he decided to have a drink to begin with.

I stared at him for a minute longer, still lost in my thoughts.

Though, I do have to admit... For a drifter, he comes off as a very classy man.

Just as this remark crossed my mind, I saw him put his phone away and back in his coat pocket, which prompted me to initiate a conversation with him while I kept making drinks for other customers; I stood next to him as I grabbed various bottles, glasses, and shakers.

"Pardon me for asking, but what are you doing here?" I asked with a chuckle but genuine curiosity.

Up until I talked, he had been looking to the side, but the very second the first words I spoke came out of my mouth, he turned to look at me.

"I mean- I don't mean to be rude, but a business-looking fella like yourself doesn't really seem in his environment in a place like this."

He scoffed at my comment and closed his eyes for a brief second.

"It's true I'm not usually fond of bars." He said as he looked around him at the bar and its decorations. "But I've been hearing about this establishment of yours from..."

He marked a pause mid-sentence to exhale heavily through his nose, then pouted in an upset manner.

"... Business partners." He finally finished his sentence in a somewhat bitter tone. "So I'd been meaning to give it a try for some time now, and it just so happened I needed a drink tonight."

"Ah, I get the feeling." I told him with a smile. "And, soooo... How are you liking it here so far? Have the expectations you had of the bar been met? If you had any to begin with, that is."

The man looked around him once more, as if to fully analyze his environment, after which he brought his glass of whisky up to his lips.

"It's quite a decent pub you're running here, I think."

"Oh, I don't own the place." I awkwardly chuckled as I gestured my hands around. "But, thank you. It always makes me happy to know our customers are happy customers."

The smile I wore lifted upward on one corner of my mouth as I shrugged lightly with my eyebrows slightly raised.

"And, who knows... If you really do like it here, maybe you'll even see yourself becoming a regular." I joked. "Lord knows that'd be a blessing for business."

And to that, he scoffed and shook his head, then he swallowed the last drops of liquor that had been resting at the bottom of his glass.

"Yeah, who knows." He whispered almost inaudibly.

Now that his glass was empty, that his sorrow had been washed away, he got up from his stool and was ready to go back outside, out into the cold night that was surely waiting for his return; but before he did, he dived his hand into one of his coat pockets, and as he turned to me, he set on the counter a moderately generous tip.

"Good night." He told me in his low, deep voice.

"Thank you." I said, smiling brightly at him while my hand collected the money before me. "You have a good night as well."

And with that, the man in the suit headed for the front door, followed once more by the sound of his short heels walking the white and blue floor tiles; and he left the bar, which was still as quiet as when he had first stepped foot inside it.