"Sure you don't."
He finished his whiskey and stood up.
He walked out, and the bell above the door chimed, and the bar was empty again.
"Bunny."
Matt's voice.
"You're shaking."
I looked down at my hands.
They were trembling.
"Who was that?"
"No one. Someone who used to come here. Before."
"Before what?"
"Before I stopped letting people like him in."
"What did he want?"
"He wanted to see if you were as broken as you looked."
"Am I?"
"That's not for him to decide."
I didn't pour another drink for the rest of the afternoon.
Matt handled the customers—the few who came in, the regulars who sat in their usual spots and ordered their usual drinks and didn't look at me twice. I stood behind the bar and watched, learning, memorizing, trying to make my hands stop shaking.
"You did good."
Matt's voice, at the end of the shift.
"I didn't do anything."
"You stayed. You didn't run. That's something."
"I wanted to run."
"I know. But you didn't."
He set a glass of water in front of me.
"Drink. You're dehydrated."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're always dehydrated. You forget to drink water. You forget to eat. You forget to sleep. You forget that you're a person who needs things."
"I don't forget."
"You do. But that's okay. I'll remind you."
