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I take it from him, toss it into the laundry bin under the sink, grab a fresh rag, and tell him to restock the bottles.
I clean up, though I suspect no one other than Kurt will even notice. The bar has more rings than a Beverly Hills housewife. It's a piece of shit, but when Kurt's here, it's a spotless piece of shit.
He passes me on his way to the back and catches me around the waist, pulling me into a long, hungry kiss. I haven't told him I'm taking off, but he senses something's up.
He's replacing the last bottle when I say, "I need to leave."
He stands there, back to me, hand still on the bottle. "And by leave, you mean..."
"Going away. Someplace safe. Someplace" --I inhale-- "permanent."
His hand tightens on the bottle. Still he keeps his back to me, his voice level. "Can I talk you out of it?"
"No."
He turns then, eyes meeting mine. "What if I--?"
"No." I walk to him, and I put my hands around his neck, and I kiss him, and I pour everything I'm feeling into that kiss, everything I can't say. How amazing I think he is. How sorry I am to get him mixed up in this.
For six months, Kurt has been my hookup. The guy I go to for a little companionship, but mostly for sex. He's been safe. No one I'd ever fall for. But in this last week ...
Could we have had something? I don't know. I won't think about it. I can't.
When I pull back, he puts his hand under my chin and searches my gaze.
"You'll be safe?" he says.
I nod.
A pause. A long one. "And there's nothing I can say or do--"
"No. Please, no."
"When're you going?"
"Tomorrow."
He swears and pulls back, looking around. Then he says, "Can I have tonight?"
"You can, though I know you're probably not up to--"
He kisses me, even hungrier now, hands on my ass, pulling me against him. Then he takes my hand and slides it to his crotch.
"Am I up to it?" he asks.
I manage a laugh. "Yes, but that's not what I meant. The doctor said--"
"That I should stay in bed. Which is exactly what I'm going to do. All night. I'm gonna take you someplace nice, too. Not my shitty apartment."
"You don't need to--"
"Too bad. I'm gonna." He waves to the door. "Go on, then. Do what you gotta do. Come by at seven. Okay?"
I agree, and I leave him there, cleaning up his bar.
Kurt takes me "someplace nice"--a touristy inn outside the city. He's rented the best room, with a Jacuzzi tub, king-size bed, chocolate-covered strawberries, and cheap champagne. Diana would roll her eyes if I told her, so I won't. This is ours--our last night together--and it's damn near perfect.
We finally start to drift off to sleep around four. I'm curled up against him, and I feel him reach for something on the bed stand. He nudges me, and when I open my eyes, he's holding out a gold chain with a tiny martini glass on the end, an emerald chip for an olive.
