18% Gray. Zachary Karabashliev
bartender leans over to take my order. I tell him what I want.
“Dirty martini.”
“With vodka?” He says.
“Absolute-ly!” Where could this young woman be from?
“Olives?”
“Three.” No, definitely not Europe. Actually, why not? Portugal, perhaps.
She could be Spanish. This quiet intensity in her. The bartender shakes the cocktail and pours the murky, greenish content into the chilled martini glass. I take a sip. Wonderful. I compliment the bartender. He thanks me humbly and asks if I want the ice from the shaker before he tosses it. Professional, a true professional. He asks me where I’m from.
“Bulgaria.”
“Never been there.”
“And you?”
“Michigan.”
“Never been there, either, but I went to school close by, at Ohio State.”
“Oh, Ohio State. The Buckeyes almost did it this year, huh?”
“Almost.”
“Are you a bartender?” He asks.
“Used to be. It’s how I put myself through school.”
“You know what you want.”
“I know nothing.”
“I meant . . . the martini.”
“Yeah, I know my martinis.”
“What did you study in Ohio?”
“Photography.”
“Cool. Is that what you do now?”
“No, I work for a pharmaceutical company.”
“You take pictures for them?”
“No. I stopped taking pictures some time ago.”
“So, what do you do now?”
“I monitor data from clinical trials.”
“Well,” he shrugs. “It pays the bills.”
“It pays the bills.” I say and order another one. I leave money for the two cocktails. He thanks me and goes to the other side of the bar to take a large order. I sip the second martini much more slowly. I feel its coolness crawling down my throat and penetrating my body, caressing my agitated nerves. I close my eyes and enjoy it. Nice. Maybe she’s Latin American. Venezuela? No, maybe Argentina. The tranquil grace, the walk. The tango in her eyes. Argentina. Definitely, Argentina.
“What are you drinking?” I hear a raspy voice to my left. I turn. The fattest of the four smiles, leaning toward me. The strap of her top has slipped down her round shoulder. Her bra is green.
“Uhh, martini. What are you drinking?”
“Long Island Iced Tea.” She manages to conceal her Southern drawl until the third syllable.
“Very good.” I say and get down from my bar stool to pick up something from the floor that looks like a dollar bill.
“So what are you drinking?” She asks again and leans toward me, exposing an even better view of her cleavage.
“Martini. And what are you drinking?” It’s not a dollar bill, it turns out to be a dentist’s business card.
“Long Island Iced Tea. And you?” I decide to see how far I can go.
“Martini. And you?”
“Long Island Ice Tea. And you?”
“Martini. And you?”
“Long Island Ice . . . But you asked me already. Wait, what happened to your face?” Goddamit, I had forgotten about my bruise.
“I fell down the stairs.” I take another sip of my martini and glimpse at the bar across from me. She is not there. Her friend is not there, either. I scan the entire place but she is nowhere to be found. I jump off my bar stool and start looking for her, climbing the stairs to the upper level. I can’t find her. I don’t see her around the bathrooms either, and I don’t see her outside where the smokers are hanging out. I don’t see her anywhere, ever again.
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