Being the girlfriend of the owner of a night pub wasn’t easy.

Most people thought it meant free drinks, a permanent table, and a boyfriend who was always around. In reality, it meant the opposite: he was always there, but rarely with me.

The pub was his world. If the doors were open, he was working.

During the day it wasn’t that bad. I would go there with my laptop, sit at the bar or at one of the corner tables, order a coffee and maybe something to eat. I’d study, answer emails, do everything I usually did at home — just there instead. Sometimes he’d pass by, lean over the counter and steal a quick kiss, or complain about suppliers, or ask me if I wanted another cappuccino.

Sometimes we talked for ten minutes. Sometimes we just smiled at each other from opposite sides of the room.

But at night… nights were different.

The music was louder, the lights dimmer, and the place filled with people who wanted his attention: customers, bartenders, staff asking questions, someone complaining about a reservation. I could be sitting ten meters away from him and not speak to him for an hour.

My friends tried to come sometimes, but no one wants to spend every weekend in the same pub just because your boyfriend works there.

Tonight was Sunday, though, and I had managed to drag a few of them with me.

The place was already packed when we walked in — voices layered over music, glasses clinking, people squeezed around the bar. I immediately spotted him behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, moving fast between bottles and the register.

He noticed us almost instantly.

He lifted his eyebrows in that half-surprised, half-amused expression he always made when I showed up with a group.

A waiter quickly guided us to the best table in the room. Of course. Perks of the job.

My friends exchanged looks, trying not to laugh.

“Okay,” Sofia whispered as she sat down, “I could get used to this.”

Before I could answer, he appeared at the table, already holding a small notepad even though he never really used it for us.

He leaned one hand on the table and looked at all of us with a playful smile.

“So,” he said, glancing from one to the other, “what can I bring the ladies tonight?”

Then he looked at me and added, like he always did,

“And please… tonight don’t leave me bankrupt again.”

My friends burst out laughing.

I crossed my arms and tilted my head.

“First of all,” I said, “you’re the one who keeps bringing things we didn’t ask for.”

“False accusations,” he replied immediately.

“And second,” I added, pointing at him, “if you didn’t want to risk bankruptcy, maybe you shouldn’t date someone who brings friends.”

He pretended to think about it for a second.

“Too late,” he said with a small grin. “Already invested too much.”

One of my friends leaned forward.

“Well then,” she said, “in that case we’ll start with four spritz.”

He wrote something dramatically on the empty page of the notebook.

“Four spritz,” he repeated.

Then he looked at me.

“And for you?”

I shrugged casually.

“I’ll take whatever you’re making me for free.”

He laughed softly, shook his head, and tapped the table twice before stepping back.

“Dangerous answer.”

Then he turned toward the bar again, disappearing almost immediately into the crowd of people calling his name.

And just like that, he was gone again.

But at least, for a minute, he had been there.