Slumped on a bar stool, the door swung open, and in strutted a dame I vaguely recognized from the murky depths of my memory. Couldn’t place her at first—perhaps she was the ex of some poor bastard I used to drink with, or a fleeting encounter at one of those godforsaken parties where the booze flows cheaper than the conversations. Yet, societal norms dictate a nod, a wave, some acknowledgment, so when our eyes locked, that’s precisely what she got.
She approached, slinging hellos and feigned astonishments like a seasoned pro. Ordering a glass of red wine, she inquired about my novel—the one languishing in literary purgatory, questioning when it might grace the world or if it was doomed to obscurity. Then, after a moment and merely two sips of her wine, she oddly announced she’d wait for her friend at her table instead. Standing up with a thank-you wrapped in a half-smile, she glided to her table, leaving me adrift in a sea of confusion.
I was left grappling with the spectacle of it all. Did I even offer that drink? My mind raced, a whirlwind of doubt and bemusement as she paraded her prize, the wine, to her sanctuary under the guise of a farewell.
A realization hit me—I wasn’t attempting to charm her. Hell, she wasn’t my scene, too similar in age, too familiar in despair. Yet, there she was, a beacon of indifference, submerged in her phone, detached from the world, and from me.
Screw it. I wasn’t paying for that glass of wine. Gradually, memories of this Minnie the Moocher began to resurface, recalling how she mooched off various gentlemen at the party where we first met, though I hadn’t realized it at the time. I turned to the young bartender who served us, questioning whether I should settle the bill for her wine.
“I wouldn’t pay for it, if I were you,” she advised, shaking her head. “She ordered it, she should pay. Besides, she’s enjoying it alone, not in your company. If you feel like buying someone a drink, you might as well buy one for me. I have to put up with you and listen to you for hours.” She smiled and winked at me.
Charmed, I promised her a drink the following day, sealed with a kiss on her hand and a generous tip.
True to my word, I returned, reclaiming my throne at the bar. The world outside could be crumbling, but inside, our little ritual unfolded with my favorite bartender. We shared drinks, laughter, and a fleeting escape.
“Do you remember that woman from yesterday?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“She complained that you ordered that drink and refused to pay for it.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“I told her that when someone offers you a drink, it’s not because they’re concerned about your thirst or out of sheer goodwill. They’re buying fifteen minutes of your attention, and the actual drink is just a minor detail in the grand scheme of things.”
“And her reaction?”
“She looked just as clueless as you did when she left you at the bar yesterday.”