The Bartender is a fixture. I don’t mean that metaphorically. I’m pretty sure they are structurally load-bearing. They never leave the space behind the polished mahogany counter. They don't speak, either. They just stare at you with eyes that look like tired mirrors and pour exactly what you need.
The Bartender drifted over. No footsteps. Just movement.
"Round of shots," Desi demanded. "Something spicy. Like... a regretful hookup in a Taco Bell bathroom."
"No," I interjected, adjusting my glasses. "We need clarity. A Gin and Tonic. But use the gin from that summer we went camping in the Adirondacks. The crisp stuff."
The Bartender looked at me. Then at Desi. Then at Greg, who had started sinking again.
They reached under the counter. But instead of a bottle, they pulled out a napkin.
A folded, white cocktail napkin.
My stomach did a backflip. This wasn't a drink. This was a Note.
Adam communicates in two ways: presence, and Notes. Usually, the Notes are funny. “Traffic is murder, order me nachos.” Or “Forgot my wallet, Desi’s paying.”
The Bartender slid the napkin across the wood. It stopped exactly in the center of my coaster formation.
"Read it," Desi said, her voice suddenly lacking its usual jagged edge. She sat up straighter. The pink smoke from her cigarette turned a sickly shade of grey.
I picked it up. The paper felt heavy, damp.
I unfolded it. The handwriting was familiar. It was jagged, rushed.
Stuck at a funeral. Can't make it.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.