Amber

By now, with the sun dipping below the horizon, people were flocking to the streets. The doorbell couldn't stay quiet and was jingling away. They poured out the doors in a mindless mess; along with garbage and a sweet hickory smell, they eventually left behind silence.

I took a deep breath and let it out heavily through my nose, to inhale the surrounding scents. The air swirled with that familiar alcoholic smell, my nostalgia couldn't help but pick it up. It's been a long time hasn't it; I missed the chatter and the gentle chaos our little bar brought.

"We're closing soon," the barman said to the customer.

The swishing and clinking of his glass sounds through the air. The liquid appears as amber, smooth down your throat, yet bitter as scotch.

The lax drunk must've thrown it back, sliding the mixture down, because he slammed the glass onto the counter afterwards.

Habitually, the barman grabs the glass from the man. His dress shoes thumping the ground and long slender fingers rapping the wooden counter in wait. Of what, I thought. Well of course I knew what, but he was so impatient.

"$4.85."

"I know, I know."

"You always get the same."

"What can I say? I'm a creature of habit."

"As am I. The protests last month screwed business for a little."

"Back running again though, I see."

I shuffle closer to the men while wiping down the soaked glasses. My fingertips smell like beer, they are also wetted by the cloth. It's quite soft, holes poke through a small area of the embroidery. I remember him telling me that the embroidery, yellow with light blue, was done with his own hands. Reminiscing the memory, he was quite proud of that fact.

I wander over to the now quiet men, their eyes may or may not watch me. One of my palms faces upward, hopefully in the right direction. The last glass is placed gingerly in my calloused hand by the barman, he doesn't let go until he's sure it's secure.

But I already knew it was firm in my grip.

I stand there wiping the cup up and down, inside and out to give it a shine for tomorrow. Instinctually, I feel the drunken fellow's eyes on my face, why so quiet now I wonder.

Bumping my toe into the barman's shoe and reaching to graze his neck, I feel him shiver under my damp touch.

His feet face the bar.

Before I place the cup into the piled up sink, I trace my pointer finger over the indentation and smoothness, but they catch an inconsistency. The crack is small and unextraordinary, running up the side haphazardly until finishing with a small chip around the rim. 

Continuing on, I drop the glass into the sink while my eyes scrunch up and my mouth twitches upward into a smile. Without thinking about it, I feel the floor for his foot; he's facing me now. Retaliating for the incident before, he flat-tires my shoe and it flops onto the floor tiles.

"Scoundrel..."

My work must to go on, with or without my shoe.

Walking back and forth between the glasses and the sink, dropping and wiping the beer mugs, wine glasses, shot glasses, and the counter. Finishing up, I wipe my hands on my smock and tuck the handkerchief into my pocket.

He nudges my lower back, I smack his hand away. We both know what that means.

A chair screeches backwards and is thumped loudly back into place, presumably by a foot.

"Have a goodnight," I chime in.

The customer doesn't reply at all.

The bell tingles quickly before the noise fades into the crickets chirping outside.

Meandering to the counter, my hand slips into my tip jar; I grasp at straws.

Moving onto my partner's mason jar, change rattles and paper crinkles in the glass.

I knew it, how could I not? Gathering the tip, it's quickly taken from me before I could settle it into a stack.

"Stop that."

"The eavesdropping? Well I either join the conversation or listen, I simply chose the latter."

"No, not that. Just, just let me help you sometimes," warm breathing spread across my face and the closeness touches my heart.

"You worry too much."

"There's too much to worry me," he revokes his warmth to spite me, as my eyes were closed and my breath calm.

"Before the war our little bar was raunchy, and it's still raunchy. The war doesn't change every little thing, some things yes, but not everything."

His silence is tradition, hopefully this doesn't become a religion between us.

"The same war that did this, gave us the peace we live among today, don't dwell on the trade too much," I broke the silence, I know what he was looking at.

"I miss the blue," he holds my face in his hands, they felt smooth and gentle.

"I miss it too, you don't know how many things I miss."

His silence spurred me on, "But, I will miss your face the most. I hate that my mind can't even remember it properly, because I never want to forget it." My beer fingers fall upon the crook of his nose before sliding down his cheeks, back to his forehead and the dip of his eyebrows. Didn't he have freckles here? With a small black birthmark to the right of his lips, and a dimple here when he smiles. Weren't his eyes a beautiful amber color, that held gold in its molten gaze? His eyelashes were as dark as his hair was pitch black. It's still as silky and curly as the day I left.

"Don't," he wiped tears that slipped from my eyes, I didn't even realize I was crying.

"Please, let me worry."

Worry? I'm the one who's worrying, I'm always worrying about everything that I won't remember eventually because all I see is black. I say don't worry and I say I don't worry, while I'm actually worrying my head off.

His grasp brought me back, just as the draft bus did, and his shirt grew damp at the shoulder. Gripping him tight near the back, with him holding me just as tightly.

"I'll be your eyes."

"Yes, you'll be my eyes."