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Lola quickly glanced my way and imperceptibly shook her head once. I stood, coolly removed a handkerchief from my front left pocket, patted my neck and forehead, replaced it, smoothed out my jacket, tugged at my cufflinks ensuring the cuffs were stiff and made my way to the bar top, sliding into the stool right next to Peter. He smiled at me then glanced at his watch once more. I was running out of time. The bartender approached me.
“What’ll it be?” he asked.
“What are you drinking?” I asked Peter.
He smiled. “Macallan, eighteen, neat.”
“The same,” I said with a grin, oozing charm. Open up room for conversation.
“Popular tonight,” the bartender said simply, making my adrenaline spike.
“It’s a great vintage,” I hedged.
We silently watched the bartender pour me a matching glass and walk away to attend another customer. I internally breathed a sigh of relief.
“Jonathan,” I lied, extending a hand.
I was always Jonathan. I don’t think “Lola” knew it as anything else during our little charades.
“Peter,” he answered, taking it.
I took a sip then set the glass down, nervously twisting it back and forth in the palms of my hands. I sat up slightly, checking my actions and angled myself toward him, making eye contact. Establish trust. I breathed deeply, taking yet another sip. Don’t waste time.
“Are you were from the area?” I asked.
“No, actually, I...” he started but before he could finish, I faked a clumsy movement, sweeping the pen he had sitting on the bar top next to him onto the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, as we both made a move to retrieve the pen.
I grabbed it first and awkwardly fumbled with it, distracting him further. Hope he buys this. I watched through my peripheral as Lola subtly switched her roofie laced whisky with his glass. When she righted herself, I handed it back to him. He sat back in his stool.
“Butter fingers,” I joshed.
He took a swig, a third of the glass’ contents gone.
“Nervous?” Peter asked, more astute than I previously gave him credit for.
I went with it. “Uh, yeah. I’m meeting a girl here. Blind date.” I noticed Lola smirk.
“Well, that explains it then,” he laughed, slapping me on my sore shoulder. I took the pain. I deserved it. “Get out early, I always say. Dating is the pits,” he joshed.
I cleared my throat and followed his lead as he took another swig, unaware of the poison streaming down his gullet.
“Married then?”
“Yes.” He sighed. “Thirty years next week, actually.”
I felt beads of sweat pour down my back at the declaration. He took yet another sip. I narrowly stopped myself from swiping the glass from his hands. Even if he drops, which he will, you can still back out. Just help him to his room. He’ll think he’d had too much. He’ll only wake up with a great night’s sleep.
“And you’re still happy?” I asked, ignoring my conscience, grasping for anything terrible, anything that could justify what I was about to do.
“Oh, you know, it’s not easy, not all the time anyway, but I can honestly say I am genuinely happy with Maggie. She’s my everything, if I was being candid.” He laughed at some private joke. I hated jokes. My punch line would destroy him if his wife ever found out.
My gut began to ache so terribly, my hand inadvertently scrubbed at my neck. He mistook it for nerves.
“Don’t worry, son. I’m waiting for someone, too, though it looks like he’s a no show and I flew in all the way this close to Christmas for nothing. Anyway, I’ll wait with you.”
“That’s so kind of you,” I told him honestly as he finished his drink.
