Moody Meow

My little short short story for last night.

I stood behind the cigarette-scarred bar with sweaty armpits, agonizing over drink recipes. Was our high end vodka Grey Goose or Belvedere? How did you make a Cosmo? Did a dry martini have gin or vodka? An olive? Did we have olives? Where are the lemons? Did I remember to cut the lemons? Shit.

“Erica, we’re about to open. You okay?” Jen’s hopeful smile made my stomach flop. She bartended with gritty grace, and for a month, tried to teach me all she knew. I think she saw my grimace. “Don’t sweat it, hon. Take it one person at a time. Don’t let them fluster you. You’re in control behind your bar. Remember, it’s your bar.”

“Yeah, my bar,” I muttered, while trying to remember what went into a Sex on the Beach.

I turned to get my bearings. Feet shuffled, hushed laughter and the uncomfortable honk of wood against wood as the barstools were pulled out by the customers. They were sounds I recognized, but they filled my belly with terror. I turned to face them, the thirsty masses yearning for their drink. The bar throbbed with strangers. Jen disappeared into the back room. I needed a friendly face.

She smiled through the smoke that wafted from her cigarette. Dark tresses swept over her pale shoulders. She smiled.

I shuffled over to her. “Hello love, what can I get you?” Carefully, I laid down a white drink napkin in front of her.

“I’ll take a cabernet.” Her smooth voice reminded me of Irish cream and coffee.

I turned to the shelf behind me. Our selection of wine was limited to three bottles, all cheap with curling labels. Grabbing a freshly washed wine glass, I polished it, and set it down before her. I poured the wine with precision and care.

“Here you go!” I beamed.

She pushed the glass towards me.“Is this a cabernet?”

“Uhm” My smile fell. “Yeah.”

“Cabernets are red.” She wasn’t smiling.

I looked at her glass, and then to the wine bottle still in my hand. It said Chardonnay.