AllFreeNovel
Share Us
What would I say anyway? She clearly doesn’t want to talk to me. And it’s not like she’s leaving in the middle of her shift. She was almost done. So I just stare after her instead.
Apparently, Harold doesn’t miss my look. His glass has been empty for a few minutes, but he still hasn’t left. I’ve never had to run him out of the bar, but maybe this will be the first time.
“I suppose it’s time for me to go,” Harold says, but he still doesn’t move.
I collect his empty glass. “You’ve already paid your tab, so I’ll let you go home tonight.” It’s a running joke between the two of us that I should give him a “drunk walking” ticket pretty much any night of the week.
Harold watches carefully as I wash up the glass. “You and Violet, huh?”
I look up, dropping the glass into the bottom of the sink, but it doesn’t break. “Shit. You almost made me end the night by going to the emergency room.”
Harold grins. “I didn’t make you do anything. Why are you so nervous that even the mention of Violet’s name makes you start dropping things? Or was it the fact that I said your names together?” He’s drawing out his questions, trying to make them seem less intimidating. But I know he’s just a nosy old man, a kind nosy old man, but still. He doesn’t need to know everything that’s going on between Violet and me, especially our deal.
“I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”
“Sure has,” Harold agrees.
I add the glass to the stack of ones to go in the dishwasher and take them in the back, hoping that Harold will be gone by the time I return. I’m pretty much done cleaning up, and I really am ready to get home.
Harold is still watching me with those same scrutinizing eyes, though. “Have you done something to make Violet upset? She didn’t seem like herself tonight.”
“Why would you think that’s my fault?” I avoid the question.
“The way she looks at you.”
I can’t help it. I’m falling into Harold’s well-laid trap. “And how’s that?”
“With eyes full of adoration.”
I roll my eyes at that. “Okay, that’s definitely not how she looks at me. I know you were over here, and most of our conversations were on that side of the bar, but she can’t stand me. It doesn’t make sense after…” But I stop myself. Harold is a great listener, but it doesn’t mean that I want to tell him everything.
“After what?” Harold prompts.
I run a hand through my hair, pushing it back from my face. “We may have kissed.”
“Sure, let’s call it that. Kissing.” Harold winks, and I can tell that he knows exactly what I mean. “And now, you both like each other, but you’re too stubborn to have a real talk.”
“No, that’s not how it is at all. She doesn’t like me. That’s the…” Problem. I don’t say it out loud though.
Harold continues to give me a knowing look. “Son, I wasn’t born yesterday. But you go ahead and keep telling yourself that if that’s what you need to do.”
I don’t respond. How am I supposed to respond when someone is calling my intelligence into question? Especially when it’s a regular customer who I usually have a fairly good relationship with.
I brush my black hair out of my view and glance at my watch. I’m not trying to be rude, but it’s time for Harold to head home. I want to at least text Violet and make sure everything is okay.
The way she left here… and our conversations when she was here. Something’s going on, and I don’t know what to think of it.
Harold finally rises from his barstool, pushing his hands against the counter as if getting up is a big deal. “I’ve lived through a few relationships, and I’m just going to say a couple of things. You can choose to listen or ignore me. You’re a big boy.”
Harold fiddles with the end of his gray beard, and I focus on the counter, trying to find some smudge I can wipe away. The counter is completely clean, though, meaning I have to listen to Harold.
“I’ve been married twice. My first wife left me, and she taught me just as many lessons as the wife who stayed. If she hadn’t passed away last year, I think I could say that we would still be happily married.”
Harold clears his throat, and I avoid eye contact with him. This man has spent probably four or five nights a week with us for the last year, and this is the most I’ve ever learned about him. Somehow, he always manages to wiggle out of questions and ask them to me instead.
“First of all, talking about feelings isn’t something you should be scared of. You can think like a five-year-old if that helps. Just tell her, ‘I feel angry.’ Or, ‘When you did that, I felt frustrated.’” Harold nods along, like he agrees with his own advice. Meanwhile, I just want to get out of here.
I glance at the front door, then toward the door that leads to the kitchen. Harold might be drunker than I first thought. His ability to read the situation and how uncomfortable he’s making me have disappeared.
