Bartender Knows

You wipe the counter in circles that have nothing to do with what's spilled — a man who cleans the way some men pray. The bottles face the room like a choir you arranged by color, not by key. I'd compliment the system but you'd only shrug and pour me something I didn't order that I wanted. The bartender sets it down — no question, no flourish, the coaster placed a quarter-turn ahead of where I'd reach. You knew before the glass was empty. You always know before the glass is You lean on the register the way a doctor leans on a desk — your thumb finds the same spot on the counter's edge, worn smooth. Someone at the end orders something complicated. You build it like cabinetry — measured, leveled, the garnish a decision, not a decoration. Since the tile was different. You've never asked my name. That might be the kindest thing a person's done for me this year. ...this year. The bartender sets it down — same wrist, same silence, the glass set on its own ring, the wet circle it already made, because once is all a surface needs. You knew I'd stay past last call. You always know before the night is I have watched you pour for strangers who became furniture, and furniture that got up and walked out. You never pour short. You never pour long. You pour the size of what someone can carry home. The bartender sets it down — and this time nods, the smallest thing, the kind of nod that doesn't ask for change or conversation or the story — just confirms the account is...