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Jack
slammed his mug on the countertop and pushed it with the
tip of his middle finger.
"I thought that was the last one," Angel said,
taking the glass and wiping the counter with a crumpled
white napkin, the same napkin she used 20, maybe 30
glasses ago.
He pretended not to hear. He emptied the
bowl of nuts into his palm and finished them in one manly
swing.
Angel shook her head. She pulled the tap
and watched the bubbles race to the brim of the mug. Four
years of bartending and she remains fascinated by them.
How quickly they moved. How small they were. How easy it
was to drown in their thick, white softness. They spilled
over, but Angel didn't bother to level the foam. She took
a sip from the glass, wrapped it with a white napkin, and
softly laid it on the cardboard coaster. "I'm
closing."
Jack looked at his watch and snickered.
"It's the middle of the day!"
"It's 2:38 in the morning, Jack. Go
home."
Jack lifted the glass in front of his
face, closed his eyes, and brought it to his mouth. Angel
watched as the bubbles streamed down his chin, his neck,
his chest, until Jack disappeared with a thud. Angel
walked around the counter and grabbed Jack by hisfleshy
arms. She dragged him aside and with her ivory palm wiped
the bubbles out of his five o’clock shadow.
She kissed his chapped lips, and let
herself drown.
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