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I came around the bar to hug him. He smelled the same way he did when he used to pour sand down my shirt—like potato chips.
“How the hell have you been?” I asked. We were close a long time ago, before I left for college, closer than close, but I hadn’t seen him in a few years.
“Great! I’m on leave right now,” he said.
I took him by the shoulders. “On leave? You’re in the army?”
Frankie, a soldier. I stopped myself from asking him if he was for real. I got back behind the bar.
“Yeah!” he answered. “We’ll be shipping out in two weeks.” At this, Frankie slapped the shoulders of the guys who had inserted themselves into the spots next to him. I counted fifteen or so and braced myself. They lined up at my bar. I made conversation with each one, trying not to sound too much like a friendly robot:
“Fort Hood, huh? Wow, neat.” I have no idea where that is.
“What am I? I’m Puerto Rican.” I’m human. Oh, you mean what ethnicity am I?
“Oh, thank you! So sweet!” Sure, my shirt is nice. Especially since my breasts are inside it.
Toward the end of the line was a shorter, young-looking guy with a barrel chest and high cheekbones. He stuck out his hand. “Soy Armando.”
“Soy Cassandra. What are you drinking?” I said over the noise, glancing at the guy next to him.
“Budweiser’s good,” he answered, but I was already distracted.
Armando was cute, they were all cute, but the guy next to him had broad shoulders and dark hair barely visible on a close-shaved head. Built like a wire. Long-lashed eyes and pouty lips. Sun-browned skin, almost as dark as mine.
When he realized I was looking at him, he took his eyes off the Rangers highlights.
“Hi,” I said, out of flirty phrases. “What can I get you?”
“Oh, um. Not beer.”
I laughed. “What kind of not beer?”
“Uhh...” He looked over my shoulder at the posted list, then to my right at the taps. “I actually don’t know. Sorry, it’s been a while since I was the sober one.”
“What do you like?”
“Um.” He stared at the surface of the bar, as if he were contemplating the makeup of dark matter.
“Here.” I pulled three small glasses from a stack, and mixed a few virgin cocktails. I pointed to them in turn. “Soda with lime and bitters, Shirley Temple, and a spicy ginger ale.”
He sipped on each, keeping his eyes on me above the rim of the glass. When he was finished, he waved his hand over all three. “I like this. All of this is good.”
“Oh, you met Luke!” Frankie said, wandering over, his cheeks pink. “Luke, Cassie.”
Nora squeezed between Frankie and Luke and ducked under the bar.
“That’s my bassist, Nora,” I said to Frankie, nodding at her while I scooped three glasses full of ice.
“Hi-lo, Nora,” Frankie said, tipsy sounding.
“Nora, hello, wow,” Armando said. He barely noticed that I had put the Bud in front of him. “I’m Armando.”
“And I’m working,” Nora said with a big, lipsticked smile, squeezing a tallboy in the crook of her elbow. Armando’s eyes followed her as she dropped off the drinks. He moved away from the bar to a group of soldiers swaying to “This Is How We Do It” near the jukebox. Standard fare. They wouldn’t find anything made later than 2005.
Good luck, I mouthed when she caught my eye. She rolled hers.
Luke, I’d noticed with a wave of pleasure, had not moved.
