Two hours later the bar is packed. Happy hour always is. Some intern who has had too many Manhattans keeps pumping dollars into the internet jukebox to play his favorite songs…Counting Crows “Hanginaround”. It’s a short song, so he plays it three times, to make sure everyone gets the point. They do. His friends pull him back to the pool table.
Hey, there she is again. That classy brunette, the one that went France on her drink last week and stormed out the door. The bartender checks her out more.
She’s only classy by nature, not by choice. Best kind. Jeans tonight, designer but not flaunting anything, and a short-sleeve monotone button-up with dangly earrings. Damn, some girls really make others look bad. Amy, the waitress who had to have been cute 3 years and 2 dyejobs ago, couldn’t hold a candle to this girl, but Lord knows she tried. Amy…ha. That kiss he got from her at the New Year’s Eve party. His lips came back smothered in makeup.
Oh the life of a bartender.
oh, step quickly. It’s the quiet GQ boy with the black-as-night overcoat, here for his fingers of scotch. Some people just belong on a higher plane