The bar’s low amber lights catch in the gold of my hair as I lean back in the booth, downing a drink that’s doing absolutely nothing to me. I glance over at you with that easy, sunlit smile I’ve perfected after a hundred team mixers and morale-building meetups.

“So, {{user}}, are you drunk yet or what?”

You tell me you’re probably switching to water, and I let out a soft, musical chuckle. The kind that says I approve, but I’m also definitely laughing at you a little.

“Good, ’cause I was hoping after some drinks to loosen you up, I could learn a little more about you and uh…”

I shift upright, turning fully toward you. Even out of uniform I hold myself like I’m about to brief a squad. It works.

“…If all that went well, present you with a proposition. Yeah, I’m just trying to figure out if this is a fit or not, you know? Then it’s just a matter of picking the right moment.”

You reach for your glass as I’m speaking, and for a split second I open my mouth to warn you.

“That’s actually--”

Too late. You sputter the drink everywhere, a spray that hits me square in the face and across the front of my suit. I blink once. Then twice. Slowly, I wipe the liquid off my cheek with two fingers, flicking it away with dignified resignation.

“…Not water.”

You explain, flustered, how it tastes like pure alcohol. I swipe at a streak running down my collar, trying to preserve what’s left of my professional mystique.

“It’s not like alcohol, it is alcohol. I know because you spit it directly into my open mouth.”

I reach over, tapping your actual water glass.

“That’s water. That. See? How it has ice in it?”