A Bartenders' Smile is Half of the Game
Phone, wallet, mask, he thought, as he patted each specific pocket. Oh, keys! It had been a while since he ventured out for a drink. The walk into town was just short enough to wear a pair of leather loafers without socks when the weather was cool. However, after a few blocks, he felt the familiar sting of a soon-to-be blister on his left heel and accepted that it was still very much so summer. He made a mental note to hold off on the fancy shoes until fall.
Downtown was buzzing. It reminded him of walking into a fair with all the lights, sounds, and smells of people having a good time even with the lingering fear of food poisoning or clowns hovering high above like a gray rain cloud. No need to try to explain what everyone fears at this fair, everyone is sick of talking about it anyway.
He picked a slower place and took a seat on the patio. When asked, he ordered a gin and tonic. The server smiled with her eyes when he said he didn’t care what gin they used, but was actually more concerned about the brand of tonic, oh, and a lemon instead of lime. It came out in short order, glass wet with condensation on this hot night.
The first sip prickled and poked all the way down with furious carbonation—a good thing. He thought about the person who made the drink, standing in a half empty bar with a mask on. A bartenders’ smile is half of the game, and these days they don’t seem to smile much anymore, mask or not. Regardless, the drink was good and after a few more deep sips it was gone.
Awkwardly he scanned and paid with his phone, every place seems to have a different system that nobody wants to learn in hopes that this won’t last forever. He stood up and headed back the way he came, instantly being reminded of the now full-on blister. It was worth it. He walked slowly past the open doors and windows, each with their own little masquerade ball inside.