I stood at the bar, waiting. I’d come here enough that I was certain I knew all the bartenders, and I definitely knew Ed, who was laughing (fake) as he pulled a pint for a girl in overalls and a crop top, the bare skin of her sides peeking out in triangles, her voice lilting at him ridiculously. Farther down the bar was a second bartender, no one I’d ever seen here before. He had a thick beard, impeccably groomed, and eyebrows that matched. And then there were his eyes, which were narrowed slightly, as though he were in deep concentration. They were dark, and there was a warmth to them, but also a sense of reproach. There is nowhere to hide, said his eyes, and I was grateful they were not pointed at me.

I turned instead toward Ed, who greeted me with a wide smile. I knew it was his job to be pleased by my arrival, to make me feel at home. But it worked; I wanted his care and needed it.

“Dark and Stormy,” I said, and he winked. Ed’s drinks were watery concoctions, really not good. But he was one sturdy post in the world, and so I drank them.

I looked back toward the other bartender. There was a stern, set quality to his jaw. He wore the bar’s regulation black T-shirt, a blue-checked towel slung over one shoulder, and I watched him reach for it to wipe the wet circles off the bar. There was an arrogance to his manner: he moved with deliberation, rushing for no one. Watching him, I could not shake the suspicion that I had seen him before, though I was certain I’d never seen him here. Did he simply remind me of someone? Had I seen him walking around the neighborhood or working another job? Or had I been examining his eyes with such ferocity that I’d become convinced I’d always known them? I couldn’t believe the other patrons could stand his electric gaze. Lines of muscle flexed beneath the dark hair of his forearms. He had his left arm braced against the counter as he wiped with his right. I imagined it braced against a headboard.

Sam.

Jojo.

Langham.

My parents.

Dinner.

I closed my eyes and gave a brisk shake of my head, trying to loose the thoughts from my brain. If only they would unlatch like dandelion seeds, fly off in the breeze, leave my mind a plucked white bulb.

Ed slid my drink in front of me. “Madam,” he said.

I took a sip. “You’re good,” I lied, then dipped into my bag for my wallet.

“On the house.”

“Yeah?”

“You can pay for your next one.”

“Thanks,” I said. I glanced toward the other bartender, who was now pulling a pint, squinting over the taps. His familiarity, which I still couldn’t place, had begun to unnerve and excite me. His eyes roamed over the patrons of the bar, examining them intensely. “There won’t be a next one,” I told Ed.