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“You declaring which side of the line you’re on?” She says.
“What?”
“I’m talking about the Mason-Dixon line, and the whole references to ‘Dixie’ being the south and…” Alexandra pauses, then shakes her head. “I know it’s a bad joke. Cartography always is, yet I still find myself going back to it. I wish there was some sort of roadmap to a good joke. Anyway, I get that bad joke habit from my dad. Also, in my defense, I’ve been on my feet pouring alcohol into the gaping mouths of dudes for, like, ten hours.”
My eyes drift back to the table, where the others are drinking and talking so loud I can catch much of their conversations — Rook is defending structure, Thunder is ironically defending structure, and Moose is telling Striker some story that’ll traumatize him.
Then my eyes go back to Alexandra. They’re happier for it.
“I don’t know how you could take ten hours of this.”
“For minimum wage, plus tips.”
“That’s it?”
“The tips are good. Drunk people, especially drunk guys, see a woman who is serving them drinks, and they think a few extra bills her way might get them something more than just a beer. Don’t tell anyone, but it’s all an act when we smile at customers. We just want your money.” She taps her nose.
“Is that what you’re working on me for? You just want the tip?”
“Assuming things go well, I’d like more than just the tip.”
I empty my glass and look at her. Really look. Not just at her softly toned body or those eyes that keep me rooted to my stool, but at what’s behind them. There’s something burning there — a heat I want to get closer to. Yet something that surprises me in how direct it is.
“You don’t mess around.”
“When you deal with drunk people all day, you learn the best way to talk to someone is to say exactly what you mean. So, yeah, I don’t mess around.”
“Sounds like you have it all figured out.”
“I know what I want. And I know what I definitely do not want.” She stops for a moment to fill a different customer’s order, then she gives me a long look. It’s a piercing, mind-reading stare that would make a therapist envious. “There’s something really heavy on your mind.” Alexandra pours a shot for herself, then one for me, and she refills my beer. “Want to talk about it?”
The shot goes down easy, and gets refilled the moment I set the empty glass down, and her eyes continue to look into me as if they’re ready to drink up my regrets. I think about telling her, for just a moment, about how killing the wrong man has left me spending the rest of my life wanting to kill myself, and then I shake my head. There aren’t enough whiskey shots in the world to make me think that’s a good idea.
“Life’s been hard.”
“Everyone’s life is hard. Welcome to being alive. What’s wrong?”
Another shot, another tug at my conscience. “My life isn’t always easy. Sometimes, it’s really fucking dangerous. And sometimes, you do things you regret, but you do them because the consequences otherwise would be… well, I’ll leave that to your imagination.”
“Someone die?”
“Yes.”
“I get it. I lost my brother when I was younger. He was my hero. But the way he died… It was tragic, unexpected, and there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about him.”
I raise my glass to her. There’s a sad smile on my face. “To the ones we’ve lost.”
She taps her glass to mine.
A tap at my shoulder makes me turn.
Striker’s there, grinning. “You good?”
I raise an eyebrow at him. It’s pretty damn clear I am. “I’m good.”
“What can I get you?” Alexandra says, suddenly professional. At that moment, I resent Striker for being there.
“Another round, also on my friend’s tab. And one appletini,” Striker says. Before I can even ask, Striker adds, “The appletini is for Moose. Also, this is our last round. We’re adjourning until church, which will be in a few days.”
