Page 6 of A Taste of Vanilla

Oliver notices. He notices everything except when people flirt with him, which is astonishing because people flirt constantly. He treats attraction like a clerical error.

“Eat the fries,” he says.

“I don’t want them.”

“You ordered them.”

“Past Halston made choices current Halston cannot support.”

“Current Halston is drunk.”

“Current Halston hasclarity.”

“Current Halston asked about Suzy Homemaker’s hypothetical infidelity.”

I pick up a fry, biting it aggressively. “There. Happy?”

“Rarely,” he adds more ice to the well.

“You should work on that.”

“I own a bar. Happiness would ruin my brand.”

The Vipers player calls again. “Oliver, if you won’t put on the highlights, can we at least get another round?”

Oliver stares at him.

“Please?”

He mutters something that sounds an awful lot like, “Athletes with manners. The end has to be near,” and goes to pour their drinks.

I watch him move down the bar, all long-suffering competence and rolled-up sleeves.

Oliver is the kind of man who makes loneliness look like a management style. He’s built Saints & Sinners into something people need, then acts annoyed when they need it. Every regular has a story. Every player has a preferred drink he pretends not to remember. Every grieving woman at the bar got fries, water, and their phone restricted.

He would rather eat glass than admit he loves anyone. Unfortunately for him, we know.

He returns with three beers balanced between his fingers, a few other regulars coming up to take them, before sliding the mixed drinks over the bar to the Vipers. His expression is of a man serving a sentence. One Viper tries to tip him with a signed baseball.

Oliver stares at it.

“It’ll be worth something one day,” the player smiles.

“It’s worth something now,” Oliver says smoothly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. One less conversation.”

He comes back to me without looking back at the table of giggling baseball players.

I point to him. “You like them.”

“I like pest control too. Doesn’t mean I invite bugs to dinner with me.”

“You know their drink orders,” I insist.

“I know many tragic facts against my will.”