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“Here you go,” Matteo said, putting down a new napkin, like the one before it had become so completely soiled that the mere thought of placing the fresh drink upon it hurt Matteo’s sweet bartender heart.
“Thank you,” David said, setting his phone down (eight minutes after nine), and wrapping a hand around the glass. He didn’t lift it.
“No Phillip?” Matteo asked, as if he couldn’t tell from the fact that David was still alone.
“No Phillip,” David said.
Matteo looked as if he were waiting for more.
“He’s—uh. He’s late. Always. It’s one of his things.”
“And let me guess,” Matteo said, that funny little smirk back on his face. “You’re the one that’s always a little early.”
Yeah, that was pretty spot-on. David wondered how Matteo knew that (aside from the fact that he was obviously here early). Maybe it was the sweater. Or the tie. Or maybe Matteo was one of those bartenders like they showed on TV or in movies where they seemed almost clairvoyant and had hearts of gold and wiped down the bar top with a white rag while spouting little pearls of wisdom.
But it was true, though. David was always early. That was his thing, and it had always exasperated him about Phillip that he couldn’t be on time for anything. They’d fought about it before, little back and forths that hadn’t amounted to anything. Neither of them changed, but it wasn’t something that needed to be changed. It was just one of those things.
Like at the wedding. Everything had felt so goddamned surreal, and Phillip was running a little late as always, and David had been annoyed because of it.
“You know she’s going to get upset with us,” he’d said, trying to keep his voice even.
“I can’t find my socks,” Phillip had said, but he’d sounded so damn happy. “Where the fuck did I put the socks, buddy?”
“Okay, so she’ll be upset with you for making her wait,” David had amended. “I’ll be just fine.”
They’d found the socks. Eventually.
She had been upset, but only a little bit. And then she’d smiled, and nothing else had mattered.
“Yeah,” David said to Matteo. “I’m always the one that’s early.”
He shifted on the stool and felt the ring in his pocket press against his thigh.
“So how’s that work?” Matteo asked. “If he’s late, and you’re early.”
David shrugged, clearing his throat. “It just… did. I guess.”
Matteo leaned forward a little bit farther. He brought up two fingers, beckoning David a little closer. David wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to. He did it anyway.
“See those two down at the end of the bar?” Matteo whispered in a low voice as Bing Crosby dreamed of a white Christmas somewhere overhead.
David glanced down. The young couple. The man and woman. He looked back at Matteo and nodded.
“They’re married,” Matteo whispered. “But not to each other.”
David’s eyes widened. He didn’t care exactly, or at least he told himself he didn’t, but it was still slightly scandalous, wasn’t it? “How do you know that?”
Matteo had a strange glint in his eyes. “He brings his wife here. One of those rich Foxhall Crescent yuppies. DC money, you know? He’s a broker or a lawyer or a junior senator. It doesn’t matter. They’re all the same. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I see here. What happens. What people try to get away with. I’m waiting for the day the wife comes in. That happens sometimes, you know. They’ll be here, sitting in a dark corner, whispering to each other with these little hearts in their eyes and the wife comes in, guns blazing. There’s shouting, and things are thrown, the wife is crying, the man is trying to calm her down, and the other, the side piece, is sitting there like she’s unsure if she should get up and leave, or if she shouldn’t move and draw attention to herself.” Matteo snorted and shook his head. “It’ll happen. One of these days.”
“But until then, you don’t judge?” David asked, sitting back.
“Oh bullshit. I judge the hell out of them,” Matteo said. “But I keep that to myself. I am a master of discretion, after all.”
“Except you just told me.”
“Well, yes,” Matteo said, eyes crinkling. “But you seem like you can be discreet yourself.”
Yeah.
