"Make balloon animals. Fuck if I know. Use it! What the hell do you think you should do with a condom?"
"I just met him."
"Yes, that's why I'm giving you the condom. You don't freestyle with someone you just met."
"I'm not having sex with a total stranger."
"Yes, you are. Technically, he's not a total stranger. He owns this bar."
"We go way back, right? Do you know his name? I sure as hell don't. I'll have you know, Katy, I don't need to bang random strangers for validation." I put the condom back in her hand.
"No, keep it just in case." Katy pushed my hand away. I rolled my eyes at her and put the condom in my purse.
"This is just to shut you up cause my underwear is staying on tonight."
"But you're gonna at least talk to him, right?"
"Talk to who?"
"The hottie bartender."
"Yes, I'll talk to him."
"Talk him into going home with you," Katy said. "Maybe?"
"You're starting to annoy me," I said as I walked out of the bathroom feeling like I had a loaded gun in my purse and a sign on my forehead.
I saw the bartender at the bar pouring a round of drinks to a group of men. He had a smile on his face, and he poured like a pro.
I walked up to the bar, feeling heat flush my face as I weighed what to say.
He looked up at me with just his eyes, never breaking the pour of the fancy martini he was serving.
"Thought you'd never return," he said smiling.
I sat down at the bar and steepled my hands in front of my face.
"I'm just going to make it known that I feel awkward as hell. I didn't even get your name."
He smiled at me and poured a Sex on the beach into the shaker before him. He mixed it expertly and poured two drinks into tall glasses in front of us. He pushed one in front of me while keeping the other at his elbow.
"You can drink on the job?"
"You can if you own the place and make all the rules."
"I'm Allison, by the way. Everyone calls me Ally."
"Hawkley. My dad calls me Hawk, but most everyone else calls me Hawkley."
…
I had four drinks in total; maybe it was five. Plus the Champagne from earlier. Hawkley was a total gentleman and asked me if I was okay, if I wanted more and how I was getting home. I felt comfortable around him, even more so as the night wore on. And it wasn't just the booze doing the talking or my year-long dry spell. It was because the man was kind and thoughtful, and his father sat right beside us, drinking orange juice out of a beer bottle and toasting me endlessly.
"To my boy! The best singer on the planet, with the voice of an angel," his father shouted. Hawkley handled it all very well and toasted his father, and never scolded him for being embarrassing.
"Best. On. The. Planet. You heard it here first," he said to me, winking.
I knew a bit about singers, both the best and the worst, but I wanted to keep my private life private, and I didn't say much about myself—but that wasn't for lack of Hawk asking me questions.
"What exactly do you do for a living?"
"I'm in acquisitions, I guess you could say."
"The art world? That's fascinating. I'm jealous."
"I do get my hands on some masterpieces."
He found my opinions about music endlessly fascinating. He kept up with me in worthless music trivia. Better than anyone, even more than Royce, who'd got his start making YouTube videos of himself in his garage singing Hank Williams.
"Best tour year for the Dead?" he quizzed me.
"'77, no contest," I replied.
"See, I thought you'd go there, but Europe '72 really had that spark."
"You weren't even born yet," I told him frankly.
"Neither were you," he said. I shrugged nonchalantly.
"Best singer song-writer of all time, besides Dylan?" he poised. He wasn't so much quizzing me as he was showing me how much he loved music, what a massive part of his life and identity was wrapped up in sound. I knew how he felt. Maybe I wasn't a musician myself, but music had guided my life, kept me afloat when I felt down, quite literally paid my bills, and put food on my table.
I scratched my head, searching for the right and meaningful answer. He was staring at my lips. If there weren't a bar in between us, I'd lean in and kiss him.
"I'm going to say Prince, and I understand if you disagree. But I have my reasons, and I can lay them out for you."
"No need. I totally get that. Bonafide brilliant musical genius on every level, even performance, and the two don't always go hand in hand."
"You're telling me," I told him. I was now mirroring him and staring at his mouth when he spoke, wondering what his tongue would taste like.