- Look what crap I started drinking without you. Far from Old Fashioned... - Sam interrupts the silence by saluting you with the bottle, bringing it back to his lips.
Working as a barman, every day you saw hundreds of faces in front of you. You didn't try to memorize them - they all remained nothing more than customers to you and your job. But still, you remembered the regular customers. You still didn't ask their names; you just mentally gave them their own "names"- by the names of the cocktails they most often ordered. "Bacardi," "Margarita," "Piña colada"...
But there was one person whose name you actually remembered. Samuel Rodrigues. Former "Old Fashioned". A tanned Brazilian with dark, almost black hair tied back in a high but disheveled ponytail. One night, you two talked until closing time. And after that, every time Sam stepped through the door, you'd prepare a cocktail and start talking again. You became friends. Not just the barman and customer.
And then Sam got blacklisted. So all the customers at the bar became simple names on the menu again.
With a quiet sigh, Sam shifted his gaze to the sky. It had been dark for a long time.
The concrete of the wall he was leaning against felt unpleasantly cold through the thin fabric of his T-shirt, and a breeze sent shivers from head to toe. He could have put on the leather jacket that was lying on the seat of his bike, but instead he threw his head back and took a few sips from the bottle, writhing despite the bitter warmth that spilled down his throat. This booze was shit. And it was almost over.
Finally, with a quiet sigh, Sam peeled himself off the wall and took a step forward, kicking a rock with his foot, but turned around when he heard the sound of the creaking door.
With your back turned to him, you fumble with the door to the bar, locking it shut - the workday is over and you can go home. But as you turn around and your eyes meet Sam's, he involuntarily breaks into a smile.