Page 127 of Whirlwind

Carla took down one of the chairs. “Eric’s seat,” he commented lightly.

It was true. The chairs at this table practically had nametags on them for the growing trivia team that seemed to always be there in couples and trios and double dates. When Eric came in with his boyfriend, Micah, this was always the seat he chose. Dakota, Ben, and Parker had stopped by last night to play pool, though it always looked like foreplay, the way that Dakota rubbed up against the other two. Angel practically lived at the bar, flirting and waiting for Nina to get off work.

Of course, Carla was good friends with them too, sometimes joining them for a meal before the game started.

So, the two of them had common friends. Kind of. Did that mean anything?

Finally, Charlie made it to the back corner where the highchairs were stacked, still trying to concentrate on her work, though her thoughts came in whisps. Who knew that her bar would one day serve families with children? Queer families with children. But they came anyway, with their toddlers and noise, ordering chicken fingers and fries and leaving by seven. She liked seeing all of their familiar faces, and often stopped to chat when things got slow.

It was one of the perks and drawbacks of being a bartender. She seemed to know everyone’s stories, but they didn’t know hers. Not that anyone would be interested anyway. She was just a dried up old butch and the bar was her life.

Which is why she was still wondering, Why is Carla here?

Actually, why wasn’t Carla talking? Usually he chattered a mile a minute. Today, without any words to fill the air between them, she could only think of the shape of his body and the way that it moved in the intimate space between the closely-packed tables.

She lifted another chair, not looking in Carla’s direction, even though he was standing directly across from her. He was humming one of the songs that was always playing on the Spotify station that he’d recommended for the bar. Even at a hum, his voice was mellow and warm, filled with life.

He’d been right about the music, too. When she’d switched from old CDs to the new channel, she’d started to see more people singing along, and even getting up to dance sometimes late at night. That meant they bought more beer.

Of course, she wasn’t going to mention that she liked the music as well. It felt fresh and young, even when she felt so old. Not old like Tom and Frank who came by almost every evening to reminisce about the pre-Stonewall days. But too old to fit in with the young folks who came by the bar with their preferred pronouns and loudly advertised kinks.

Folks like Carla.

She still didn’t quite understand why Carla used a feminine name and masculine pronouns. Why not just go by Carl, or use she—something that matched? It had seemed odd at first, but now it was automatic. They both seemed to fit him.

Maybe if she were younger, she would have done something like that. Changed her name or hormones or body.

It seemed exhausting, though. The staff had pins with their pronouns, and the black apron that she would toss over her head in a few minutes had a she/her button on it.

Sometimes she looked at it and it was like some foreign language. Seeing it there made it look like she’d planned it or something. Chosen it.

She wasn’t sure that she had. Did she have to wear the button at all?

Those were the types of thoughts that Carla made her think about. He ran support groups for trans and non-binary kids. She knew that if she asked Carla about his own pronouns, he’d be happy to answer at length.

She could probably also ask him about his ancestry—Asian, European, and something else, as far as she could tell, with his golden skin, glistening gray eyes under thick eyelids, and silky hair. Middle Eastern? Native American? But they’d never talked too much about personal stuff when they were getting to know each other.

Now she always felt so tongue-tied around him, like a stumbling teenager.

They made it to the last few tables. Things certainly went faster with two pairs of hands. Carla disappeared from Charlie’s side, and she told herself not to watch where he went.

She hadn’t invited him here or asked for any help. She certainly didn’t need to be watching his mesmerizing ass in those tight red pants.

He was her employee for crying out loud. Kind of. Business partner? Contractor? She mostly paid him out of the tip jar off the books, and the rest wasn’t enough to report taxes on. They didn’t even have a contract, and she was pretty sure she’d never gotten his I9’s. So he wasn’t really her employee.

Which still didn’t explain why he’d showed up just before opening when it wasn’t trivia night. Why was he in the back room, anyway?

He popped out with a broom and began pushing it under a corner table that hadn’t been properly swept the night before. She’d been too distracted to notice until he started pushing crumpled napkins and shriveled fries into a pile. He whistled another popular tune.

“I’m not paying you for that,” she snapped out. She hadn’t meant to say that at all. She was never so rude to anyone else.

On trivia nights he always stayed behind to help clean up, even though they’d agreed that she wouldn’t pay him. Though she secretly padded his half of the evening’s income to at least cover what she would have paid an employee for the time.

He laughed out loud, his slightly crooked teeth on display and his eyes sparkling. “No, Charlie, I wasn’t expecting you to.”

Then he tipped his hat, like he was in some black and white movie. With that broom he could almost be Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. If she mentioned it, he’d probably break out in a dance routine.

“Then why are you here?” She was feeling defensive. Off balance. She knew that he wasn’t rolling in dough as a school social worker, but he was OK for money and had a nice apartment somewhere. Trivia night was a side gig that he’d started in grad school and just never stopped. “Do you need a favor or something? Because you don’t have to butter me up. Just ask.”