I order the same cucumber tequila cocktail that I had earlier and find myself mesmerized as he makes it for me.

The bartender is in his thirties with short dirty blonde hair and sideburns. He’s got tattooed sleeves on both arms.

We talk casually as the bar fills up and then empties out again.

He’s originally from Orange County and moved out here so that he could afford to buy a house.

The housing prices are high everywhere in California but they are a little more reasonable in the Coachella Valley.

“I’ve lived in LA for many years but what I like about this Palm Springs area is that it’s like all of the best parts of LA without any of the annoying things. Great restaurants and bars. Cool, easy going people. Cheaper rent and no traffic.”

“Yeah, I heard traffic in LA can be brutal,” I say, finishing my drink and asking for another.

“You’re lucky you’ve been spared so far,” he says, cutting up my cucumber and placing it carefully into a new glass.

While he serves the other customers their drinks, I glance over at him occasionally.

I like the way he interacts with them. He’s friendly and confident.

I like the way his hair falls into his face just a little bit.

I like the way he’s at ease in making small talk and how natural it is for him.

There are very few things about him that should remind me of Nicholas.

He doesn’t have the same intensity or darkness.

Yet, when I look at him, all I see is Nicholas.

It’s getting late. The patrons are starting to file out and it’s time for me to go as well.

But I can’t make myself move.

I take the last few sips of my drink, which is all melted ice by now, and stare at the bottom of the glass.

“I think I’m ready to go,” I say with great sadness.

I wait for him to tally my bill.

“Hey, I’m not closing out the bar tonight,” he says.

I stare at him as if that’s supposed to mean something.

“I get off in a few minutes,” he explains. “You want to do something?”

I raise my eyebrows in surprise.

I had no idea he was particularly interested since he seemed to give all of his customers the same attention.

I glance down at my phone. It’s around midnight.

This is probably the latest that I’ve been out in a very long time.

“I don’t know,” I mumble. “It’s getting late.”

“Sure.” He shrugs.

He doesn’t push.

He just gives me the bill to sign and walks away.

A pang of regret rushes through me.

Why did I say that? I like him. A lot. I’d love to spend some more time with him.