Prologue #2
She takes me over to Bex before the next act starts.
Within a few minutes we're talking about the chair number, why it works and why cutting it would be a mistake.
Bex has strong opinions about both. So do I.
By the time the lights go down again, her number is in my phone and she's promised to send me footage from a rehearsal.
It happens easily after that.
Tony mentions he's been trying to get a Saturday off, so we talk about how he's been asking. The woman beside me joins the conversation, then stays in it. I learn her name, what she does, and that she's been thinking about leaving a job she hates for six months.
This part I know how to do.
People make sense once they start talking.
The problem is that every few minutes, my attention slips back toward the other end of the bar.
Sam is always doing something. Pouring. Listening. Catching a server before she has to call his name. Once, I see him slide a glass of water toward a woman who never asked for one. Another time, he replaces an empty bowl of pretzels without breaking whatever conversation he's having.
He notices everything.
Twice I start toward him and don't make it there.
The first time Summer catches my arm because the next act is starting. The second, a server passes between us and I let myself turn with the interruption instead of continuing forward.
By the third time, I'm annoyed enough with myself to keep going.
Sam sees me coming and steps away from the taps.
Then he waits.
I had something ready. I've had several things ready, actually.
"Water," I say.
For one second, neither of us moves.
Then Sam reaches for a clean glass, fills it and sets it in front of me.
No smile. No comment about the mezcal. Nothing that gives me a place to start over.
"Thanks."
He tips his chin and moves down the bar to help someone else.
I pick up the water and watch him go.
That was terrible.
The worst part is that he seems completely unaffected by it.
After the show, Summer and I find a booth near the back. I order tequila this time and ask her how she's actually doing.
Her expression changes enough that I forget about Sam for a while.
Summer talks. I listen. Sometimes she stops in the middle of a sentence and takes a drink before trying again, and I let the silence stay there until she's ready.
Around us, the room slowly empties. Tables clear.
Voices thin out. The music drops low enough that we stop having to lean toward each other to hear.
Later, when Summer gets up from the booth, I find her at the bar with Sam.
She's on her toes, one hand braced on the wood as she leans close enough to say something near his ear. Sam bends his head to hear her. The light from the front windows catches both of them, and Summer is smiling in a way I haven't seen much lately.
I take out my phone before either of them notices and snap one picture.
Summer is laughing. Sam's mouth is starting to move at one corner, like whatever she said is getting to him.
I look at it for a moment before putting my phone away.
Summer spots me then and tips her head toward the door.
I go back to the booth for my bag. My tequila is still sitting beside the empty water glass, half gone, but I've had enough. I leave it there and meet Summer near the front while she pulls on her coat.
She calls a goodnight toward the bar. Sam looks up from where he's clearing glasses and lifts a hand.
His eyes catch mine for a second before someone says his name and he's pulled back into the room.
Then Summer pushes the door open and the cold comes in around us.
Outside, she hooks her arm through mine as we start toward the corner.
"So," she says.
I know exactly where this is going.
"So."
"You had plenty to say about everybody else in there."
"I talked to Sam."
"You asked him for water."
"I was thirsty."
Summer looks straight ahead, but I can see the smile.
"He's competent," I add.
"Mm."
"Very good with the room."
"Mm."
I bump her with my shoulder. "You can stop doing that."
"I haven't done anything."
She keeps hold of my arm as we walk.
I fly home in two days.
For the first time since I booked the ticket, that feels inconvenient.
Autumn
I last four days.
Then it's late on a Wednesday and I'm in bed with my laptop open on the other pillow like a roommate, while Sam's profile has been up on my phone long enough for the screen to dim twice.
There's almost nothing on it. A photo of the bar with nobody in it. A photo of Bex mid-air. A repost of Summer's launch announcement with no caption, which tells me more about him than the rest of it put together.
He barely follows anyone. He posts almost never. He accepted my request the same night I sent it, which I have not thought about at all.
Put it down, Autumn.
Here's what I keep coming back to.
He gave me a drink I didn't order, and then he walked away. He didn't lean on the bar. He didn't ask where I was staying. He handed me the most accurate thing anybody has handed me in years and went to cut limes.
Men don't do that. Men give you something and then stand there waiting to be thanked for it.
Maybe he does that with everyone and I'm one more woman who felt seen for a night. Or maybe the drink meant something. There's no way to tell from eight hundred miles away, and I am a person who finds things out.
I've run other people's public lives for years. I've written the apology, the announcement, the graceful exit. I know what a message should say, how long it should be, and when to send it so it arrives casual.
I've been sitting here half the night trying to send a bartender a casual DM.
So I stop trying to be good at this.
if I'm ever in Chicago again would you actually want to get coffee or are we doing the polite thing
No period. No exclamation point. Nothing to hide behind.
Then I hit send without reading it back.