“It’s April in March!” he says. “What gives? We never see you in the cold weather.”

“I missed you,” I tell him. I grab a rag and help him wipe bottles. He pours me a coffee in a pint glass, loading it with milk and sugar until it’s light and cloudy like his.

“You’re the craziest girl I know,” he says. “Who has the freedom to travel anywhere and ends up in the Southern Tier in March?”

“Only the cool kids,” I say, snapping my rag at his arm.

“Well, it’s good to see you.”

“Yeah,” I say, “you too.”

I like Arnie. He’s got salt and pepper hair and a salt and pepper beard. He spends his life dealing with drunk college kids, but he has more laugh lines than frown marks. Wears worn out jeans and threadbare concert t-shirts like a uniform. Today’s is a yellow Wings Over America shirt with a bunch of little holes across the back like it got chewed by a zipper in the washing machine.

“Good timing,” Arnie says as I climb on the back bar to reach the top shelf bottles. “Spring break’s next week. We all have cabin fever.”

“I always have good timing,” I say.

“It’s always a good time when you’re here,” Arnie says.

I needed this. To show up and clean bottles and chat with Arnie like I just saw him last week, like I belong. It’s the thing I love about bar people. We have to put on a show all the time for everyone else, and when the crowd isn’t around, we don’t ask too many questions or expect big answers. It’s just good chatter. People like Arnie are the best kind of break.

We clean bottles for an hour or so. I stand on the back bar and call off levels to him. “Tuaca, three-quarters,” I say. “Tia Maria, almost empty.”

“Tuaca!” He laughs. “That bottle came with the bar. I don’t think anyone’s ordered it.”

“Triple dog dare you,” I say, jumping down with the bottle to pour us shots. “Cheers.” I slide his shot across the bar.

We clink glasses.

“One, two, three,” he calls, and we down them.

“Not as weird as I thought it would be,” I say, breathing hard through my nose to try to figure out the aftertaste.

“You’re a bad influence. Got me drinking before noon.”

“It’s like one thirty,” I tell him, laughing, even though I don’t really know what time it is.

“Lunch,” Arnie says. He gets up and goes into the kitchen. His limp is worse than it was last time I was here. He has bad knees from being on his feet so much. Needs surgery but can’t take the downtime. I get the polish from the cabinet under the sink and shine the bar for him.