Another day, another drunk asshole.

I like my job. Not in some romantic way, not because I “believe in the art of bartending” or whatever crap people say when they think pouring drinks makes them a philosopher. I just like it. I’m good at it. I run a clean bar, I keep things moving, I know my regulars, and I don’t let the place turn into a circus. That’s enough.

It’s New York—no shortage of weirdos. Tourists, finance bros, heartbroken artists, that guy who insists gin is “medicinal.” You learn to roll with it. Keep your face straight, keep the drinks flowing, don’t get dragged into anything.

Closing time always brings out the worst in people. That’s when they start reading my name tag like it’s the first word they’ve seen all night.

Desmond.

But they never say the whole thing. Too drunk, too lazy. It’s always, “Hey, Des.”

That night, the bar was about half-full when she walked in. Rolling suitcase behind her. Hair done, but not fresh. Makeup smudged like she’d cried earlier and didn’t have the energy to fix it. She looked like someone who was used to being in control—until today.

She sat down without saying a word.

“Vodka?” I offered.

She nodded.

I poured. Clean, simple, no garnish. She didn’t ask for one. Just drank.

The night moved on. Tables filled, music low, the usual noise. She didn’t talk much at first—just nursed her drinks and stared into nothing. But as her glass emptied and refilled, the words started to come out.

About her boyfriend. Or ex, I guess. She caught him cheating this morning. Said it like she’d rehearsed it, like she needed to hear it out loud to believe it happened. He kicked her out. Told her it was her fault.

She smiled when she said that. A small, tired smile. The kind you give right before you cry again.

“I left work early,” she said. “Didn’t even take my shoes off. Walked in and boom. Him and some girl who looked like me but younger. Can you believe that, Des?”

I didn’t answer. Just nodded, wiped down the counter, kept her glass full.

I don’t get involved. I serve the drink, not the therapy. I’m not cold—just practical. You last longer that way.

By the time I flipped the chairs up and started sweeping, she was still sitting there. Elbows on the bar. Voice slower, rougher now.

“Where’m I supposed to go, huh?” she asked. “You got a couch?”

I sighed.

“I’m not that guy.”

She blinked at me. “What guy?”

“The one who takes home drunk women from his bar. You can crash at my place—sleep—but that’s it. No funny business. You shower, you sleep, you leave in the morning.”

She squinted, like she wasn’t sure if she should be offended or grateful. Maybe both.

“You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

I wiped down the last glass, hung up the towel on the sink hook.

“You got a place to stay or not?”

She looked down at her suitcase. Then back at me.

“Yeah,” she mumbled. “Okay.”

So I locked up, let her trail behind me through the cold night air, suitcase wheels rattling on the sidewalk.

Not because I’m some knight in shining armor. I just don’t like leaving people stranded—especially not in this city.

Doesn’t mean I’m getting involved. Doesn’t mean I’m looking for anything.

Just means sometimes, people need a soft place to land. Just for the night.

And I’ve got a couch.