The Barback After Last Call

Last call is a mercy and a threat. I stayed because my drink was not finished and because Marco — thirty-two, thick through the chest, black tee stuck to him — kept passing my end of the bar as if the ice well had moved.

When the room emptied he said, “You going, or are you going to help me stack?” I stacked. He locked the front. The neon died and left us in the honest back-bar light.

“You've been coming in four nights running,” he said. “If that's about the whiskey, I will sell you a bottle. If it's about me, say it so I can stop wiping the same spot.”

“It's about you.”

He nodded, pleased in a workmanlike way, and kissed me over the pass. His mouth was whiskey-warm. His hands were sure. He lifted me onto the end of the bar like I weighed what the job had taught him things weigh.

We did not make it to an office. He got my jeans open, palmed me, swore once, then turned me and asked if I wanted it here. I said yes. A packet from his wallet. Fingers. The stretch. When he pushed in I braced on the wood and the whole empty room felt like it was leaning in. He fucked me steady, one hand on my hip, the other on the rail, talking low — that's it, take it — until I came across the bar we were definitely going to have to wipe again. He followed with a growl into my neck.

After, he poured two waters like a professional. “Thursday I close again,” he said.

“I'll stack,” I said.