She laughed too, and for the first time since Sal’s door closed, my shoulders loosened.
I eased out of her carefully, then reached for the clean towel stack under the counter. Nella pointed at the lower shelf before I opened the wrong drawer.
“Blue towels are for spills,” she said. “White towels are for clean hands and post-crisis nudity.”
“I’m learning the system.”
“You’d better. I’m not printing a manual.”
I cleaned her gently. She watched me the whole time, cheeks flushed, eyes steady, and I didn’t say a word while I kept my hands careful. Then she took another clean towel and cleaned me with the same quiet certainty, like she’d added it to the closing list.
Afterward, I helped her down from the counter. Her knees wobbled once.
I caught her.
“Don’t say it,” she warned.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were thinking a protective thought.”
“I’m always thinking protective thoughts.”
“Think quieter.”
“I’ll try.”
She pulled on her panties and shorts, then looked down at the open wrap top hanging off her shoulders. “This top is going in the sink.”
“It died bravely.”
“It earned hazard pay.”
I buttoned my pants and shrugged back into my shirt without closing it. Nella’s gaze dropped to my open shirt and stayed there long enough to make my breath catch.
“What happens tomorrow?” she asked.
“The office takes the principal payment. Sal leaves you alone because there’s no clean default and no collector certification.”
“And you?”
“I figure out who I am when I’m not collecting for him.”
She picked up the two plastic cups from the counter and handed one to me. “You can start by washing the counter.”
I looked at her.
Nella lifted one brow. “What? You think commitment means ignoring sanitation?”
I took the cup from her. “I’ll wash the counter.”
“Good answer.”
“And after that?”
She looked around the closed bar. The string lights glowed over stacked stools. The chalkboard still carried the day’s special in her handwriting. The black-rim drink had left proof of itself on the service mat.
“After that,” Nella said, “you can stay for one drink.”
