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haveyoumetmythief · 1 year

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Me: It is Perfectly Normal to struggle while doing visual tasks in the dark, and fumbling while plugging in my phone is a neutral act. It has been over a decade, can you please just-

The Thing Inside My Brain:

#autobiography #superwholock #bbc sherlock #alcohol cw #alcoholism cw #benadryl cucumberpatch #also the rats canonically gay and theyre using him for queerbaiting purposes

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lxvvie · 2 months

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How would Free use Simon react to a reader who drank some wine at a party and now really needs to kiss him

You do this to Simon when you come home and he's relaxing in bed (his eyes widen comically):

You're like, "Gimme kiss, Siiiiiiiiiii~ ❤️," and Simon, knowing the power of his titty pillows, promises to let you kiss him but you gotta calm down first. So he convinces you to simply rest your head on his chest and let the rush of your night on the town settle.

Not even 30 minutes later, you're out like a light and he's settled again with you nestled comfortably in his arms. And thighs.

You'll get to kiss him all you like tomorrow, doll.

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pigeonwit · 5 months

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Tipsy Davey is a lovely Davey, easy to blush and fluster – it doesn’t take much more than a smile to send him giggling into his glass, and it drives Jack’s own ego to dangerous heights. He could spend whole nights murmuring compliments in Davey’s ear, tracing his knuckle against Davey’s thigh, listening to him giggle against Jack’s own temple, feebly nudging him away (and letting him come right back) and mumbling "Jackie, stop…" without meaning a word of it.

And then there’s Drunk Davey, when his flush settles high on his cheeks and his bashfulness settles with it. He loses that nervousness he keeps underneath his skin that’s always pulling him back just a little, telling him not to come on too strong. He touches freely, whispers the pads of his fingertips over Jack’s wrists enough to drive him insane, sweeps over the bridge of Jack’s freckled nose and murmurs, “Glory be to God for dappled things…”. The bitter little middle-schooler that still lives in Jack’s mind has always thought that poetry was something just too dorky to be attractive, but that bitter little middle-schooler sure shuts the hell up when Davey whispers pretty things in Jack’s ear on a dark corner of the dance floor. Jack’s not complaining at all.

And then there’s Jack’s favourite – Truly Shitfaced Davey. He’s a rare gift, reserved only for New Years, birthdays and Halloween parties, if his costume is slutty enough. Jack can recount every single Truly Shitfaced Davey encounter he’s ever had, and while they’re nowhere near as suave as Drunk Davey, they are by all means his favourites.

“Face,” Davey mumbles, poking Jack’s cheek and marvelling at the squish of it. Jack has to bite his lip not to laugh.

“Yeah, babe?” He asks sweetly, because he is a wonderful boyfriend, thank you very much.

“Your face… It – you…” Davey’s face pinches as he tries to find his words underneath the drunk haze that’s blanketing his brain. He promptly gives up and groans, waving an arm dismissively as he burrows into Jack’s side. “S’good.”

Jack grins, pressing a kiss to the curls tickling his face. He gives up on trying to stifle his smile – Davey’s too drunk to care, and far too drunk to notice the way he’s staring inquisitvely at Jack’s lips the way he usually stares at a good book.

“Thanks, Davey-mine. Your face is good, too.”

Davey stares at him for a moment, mouth squared and silent for a little too long, until he makes a strangled little squeak and ducks his face into Jack’s neck.

“Shuddup!” He orders as Jack laughs, but he can’t help it. As much as he loves Davey when he’s reciting sonnets from memory, he especially loves him speechless, if only for the novelty of it.

#i stand by this. forever. davey can improvise full sonnets when he's drunk but get him shitfaced and he loses all capacity for speech #(also that line is from 'pied beauty' by gerard manley hopkins. because unlike davey i cannot improvise full sonnets)#(and since i'm essentially god here that means davey can't do that when i'm writing him. but in headcanon world he can)#newsies #uksies #MAL jack w freckles supremacy #javid #javey #davey jacobs #david jacobs #jack kelly #pigeon scribbles #cw substance use #tw alcohol mention #cw alcohol #cw drinking

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hanasnx · 7 months

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whiskey han … :O xoxo mel

mel. you invoke the sacred name of whiskey han for a good cause. i trashed that wip, but he deserves to see the light of day. allow me to paint the picture of our dear creation:

"What do you mean you 'don't like it'? You're not s'posed to like it, sweetheart." HAN SOLO ushers the sour-smelling drink to your mouth. It's so potent it stings your nose, instinctively shying away from it. "Don't be afraid. Aren't you a big girl?"

Your lips, previously pressed into a thin line, part. "It's gross, Han." He'd sat you in his lap to keep you close, now you can't run away. The back of your head meeting his chest when you recoil.

"Yeah, it's whiskey." he talks down to you, like it's obvious, like your questioning of him is inconvenient. "C'mon, one more sip." He feeds it to your mouth, and eager to please him you force yourself into it. You lift your head from his cheek, meeting the lip of the glass, and he raises it for you. You gulp what he gives you— which is way too much— and your inexperienced throat burns. In your impulsivity, you'd knocked back the last of the amber liquid, and your hand cups your larynx. "Woah there, cowgirl." he chuckles, impressed at your feat, curling around you to set the empty cup on the table and get a look at your face while you cough. Colored cheeks, and tears swelling onto the corners of your eyes looks so downright pitiful, he can't help but upturn his brows. "Aw, sweetheart." His body envelopes you, tucking you under his chin as he rocks you. "Brave girl, huh? Yeah," You bury your face into his chest, riding out the cough. "You'll feel a little funny in a second, but don't worry about that. Gonna take good care of you."

By good care, he means taking advantage of all your loosened holes. Positioning your limp body as he sees fit, the usual amount of prep unnecessary because the intoxication sets in quick and you're at his mercy. Anything's at his disposal. Your mouth is hot, wet, and ready. Clumsy tongue tasting all he has to offer, and you're eager to swallow as many loads as he'll give you. Adorable cunt that can't get enough, sucking in every inch of his cock 'til you writhe and rock back on him, desperate for friction, desperate for movement. When he gets it in your ass, you're like a different fucking person. Like an animal, screaming into the mattress as he holds your arms back for you, fucking into you like you want him to. Fuck you through your drunkenness, through the arousal brought on by it. All the while begging, "More, more, more!" Oh yeah, he's doing this again.

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toon-link-plush-daily · 25 days

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🎶CEERVEZAA CRIISTRAALL🎶

Today's Toon Link is sponsored by Cerveza Cristal

Cerveza Cristal, taste the freshness

#toon link plush #loz #submission #zelda #alcohol cw #thank you for informing us it's beer!

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thesarahshay · 6 months

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The Shipwrecked crew reads screenplays: Scriptwrecked

The Shipwrecked crew mixes their favorite cocktails: Sipwrecked

The Shipwrecked crew samples french fries in London: Chipwrecked

The Shipwrecked crew puts on a burlesque show: Stripwrecked

The Shipwrecked crew goes ghosthunting: Cryptwrecked

The Shipwrecked crew cuts each other's hair: Snipwrecked

The Shipwrecked crew cook shellfish together: Shrimpwrecked

#Shipwrecked Comedy #you can use all of these for free #you're welcome #cw food #cw alcohol

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crayonurchin · 10 months

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It's very hard to not compare myself to others nearing their 27th birthday. But when I compare myself to myself, I can recognise that going out with friends for a nice evening of food, laughing and a film, is miles and miles away from the quivering mess of destroyed mental health I used to be. Someone who was trapped by a failed school system, multiple grooming incidents, a believe my neurodivergence was just personal failings and the totally unknown OCD.

I am the best 26, nearly 27 year old I could possibly be. And by 28, I will be better still, because I love every single version of myself I have ever been. Those girls deserve how I am, and how I will become.

So please, this disability awareness month. Look at yourself, and see the things you've grown in to. Look at how you've blossomed. It doesn't matter if you're still budding in a potted plant while others are huge rose bushes. Your roots are spreading, your petals are growing, and you are the best you can be right now. No matter where that is, THAT is a good thing. All your pain is valid and how you feel is real, but please don't give up. No matter how hopeless if feels, please stay alive another minute. An hour. A day. You really don't know when you'll suddenly stop wanting to die, because being alive got a bit better.

#urchin art #disability awareness month #disability pride month #mental health #ocd #ptsd #c-ptsd #cw-grooming #grooming #adhd #autism #please celebrate the little things #something small to others is still allowed to be huge to you #I'm going out for pizza with friends- and those friends will probably have wine and beer #I used to be so controlled by fear of alcohol I would walk with my eyes shut and breathe held near pubs to get to work #I was terrified even the sight and particles of alcohol would hurt me #now I'm here #it can change #I promise it can change

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whoopseydaisy · 3 months

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Sky’s Secret

rich, complex, caffeinated. something fiddly, something red.

muddle 2 roasted (then chilled) grapes

2 oz. triple crème brie and aged white cheddar fat washed vodka (mostly brie, cheddar aged 1 year — get cheese with some crystals)

1/2 oz. cold brew (tangerine, light berry, sweet almond tasting notes, medium roast)

1/2 oz. — sweet red vermouth. the good local stuff.

stir over ice and double strain

serve in your most audacious martini glass garnish with gold flakes

my thanks to the muses @worldsbeyondpod @quiddie and @onsereverra for reminding me that obviously i should start with coffee when building a drink for suvi 😘😘😘

#wbn #suvirin kedberiket #wbn unofficial cookbook #wbn cocktails #the wizard the witch and the wild one #the wizard sky #wbn pod #alcohol cw #goes excellently with a square or two of almond dark chocolate #i used cows 1 year aged white cheddar #i think some parm would also work!!#imho it’s fucking delicious #and i think they would maybe even serve it at the bloody carnival #feat my unfinished citadel painting i started after hearing the secret website audio #i will note i was making this with cold brew that i had made 2 weeks before #bc i do think it mellows out a bit

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strwbrrybxn · 9 months

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⏒ good place ⏒

↬ pairing: nanami × fem!reader

↬ warning: heartbreak, break up, alcohol use

↬ genre: angst

↬ au: modern!au

a/n: welp — I’m back with another shitty story based on a song after a long break. something short to get back into the groove of things

Whiskey swirls in the small glass, ice cracking in the every time the blonde lifts it to his lips. There’s too many couples in the bar tonight, or maybe it’s the normal amount and Kento is being bitterly cynical at this moment.

He takes a look at the watch wrapped around his wrist; a gift from you that he’d never had the heart to take off. 10:32 pm. You’d be on your way home from your night shift at the hospital. You’d have called him, asking if he was asleep when he’d answer with that rough voice only to giggle in his ear when he lied and said, “no.”

Selfish insecurities float around his hazy mind — childish jealousy every time he saw you with a coworker and the days he’d leave you behind to rush off when he got a call for work. A groan on his lips when snow white hair appears in his peripheral.

“Leave me the hell alone.” Kento sighs, pushing his phone into his friend’s hand to avoid the temptation. If he unlocks it, he’ll be calling you to pick him up after another round.

“How can I do that when I’m here to drive you home?” Satoru grins, opening the blonde’s phone and looking through his messages. “Wow, not even a drunk text this time. I’m proud of you.”

“Fuck off.” Kento’s heart’s aching, head falling forward as he begs silently for the whiskey to make her memory disappear. Every time he comes to this bar, he’s reminded of you, and he wonders why he even still comes here. The bartenders look at him with sympathy, having seen you around with someone new.

It was Kento’s fault for the break up, but you never told people that. Just said that you two grew apart. He was different after coming home from a business trip, worried he had been gone for too long and the constant gloom on his face whenever your phone sounded made it tense in the home. Between the both of you working late and missing the other to the trips he would often take, by the time you were able to sit him down and talk to him about this tension, you had no choice but to leave.

“Have you spoken to her?” Kento finally says, eyes fuzzy when he finally looks towards his long time friend.

“Yes.”

“How is she?”

“She’s alright.” Satoru doesn’t think it was alright to mention that you are on the other side of the room, him having forced you to come with Iori. Kento’s hand covers his face, veins ever so present along his hand and forearm. He stays quiet for a moment, listening to the sound of chatter in the room and stupid music playing from the speakers. Your favorite bar song, actually. Buy You a Drank by T-Pain and he always thought it was stupid - he still does, but the way you would sing along to it always made him laugh. He knows every word because of you.

“I’m not in a good place, am I?”

“I’m afraid not, buddy.” Satoru’s hand comes down onto Kento’s shoulder, squeezing the skin before standing up. “Come with me.”

“Time to go?”

“It’s time to go.” Satoru sighs, helping the blonde off the barstool and into his arms. Maybe if he weren’t so drunk, he’d have seen you again, but… his dreams will do for now.

tags: @vynz0ne, @hashira-mal, @justmyownreality, @dahlias-love, @brunetteiwik, @delirious-donna, @dreamcastgirl99, @zubbue, @usagiii3

#nanami #kento nanami #nanami kento #jjk #nanami x reader #angst #nanami angst #jjk angst #heartbroken #cw alcohol use

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sin-djarin · 8 months

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Imbibe Chapter 3: Stir (Joel Miller AU x F!reader)

Pairing: Mixologist!Joel Miller x F!Reader

Rating: Mature for this chapter but still 18+. MDNI.

Word Count: 3.5k.

Warnings: AU, swearing, reader is over 25, Joel is late 40s, mentions of alcohol, alcohol consumption, elements of self-dount, mention of failed relationships, bad dates and awful dating app experiences, my spelling and grammar probably, no use of y/n, Joel in a white shirt and the apron.

Chapter Summary: Your return to the bar leaves you with more questions than answers.

A/N: Any thoughts, reblogs and comments are hugely welcome! I'm excited and nervous about this but I hope you enjoy! Your drinks menu and some music suggestions are at the bottom. There is a drink in this chapter that hasn't been named so please, feel free to name it. Cheers!

PLEASE PUT YOUR AGES IN YOUR BIO!

Chapter 1: Prep

Chapter 2: Build

Chapter 3: Stir

Chapter 4: Shake

There is no headache. There are no dry eyes. No dry mouth. No coating of sugar sticking to your teeth as you stretch your limbs across the soft sheets the next morning. The low winter sun is welcome in your room – there’s no trace of a hangover trying to pull you away from it.

Your head starts to buzz without the threat of a headache. It’s awhirl with questions rather than pain. Why had Adam not texted? Why did he not turn up? Was it something you said or didn’t say? Did you send the wrong message at the wrong time? Did you come across too strong? Why did he squeeze the orange rind over the glass and not into it? How does he work an entire shift by himself and not ache?

To answer your first question, you pick up your phone from the nightstand. The weather notification from last night still sits there beside an email from work. Your thumb swipes them both away to open Bumble. There are no new messages from Adam. There are no messages from him at all. Scrolling through your profile, you can’t find evidence that you’d even spoken before.

User not found.

Blocked.

The weight of your heart dropping to your stomach is heavy. You sit upright in the bed and hurriedly tap the screen, scouring every corner of the app, every menu and sub menu for a reason why. The hasty search doesn’t yield any results. The first guy you wanted to give a chance to. You thought he seemed different than the profiles you swiped left on. Everything is different offline.

The answer brings more questions with it. Did he meet someone else? Did he plan two dates? Was he talking to more people than just you? It’s likely. Was he even real at all? Did he just get a kick out of letting women down? Maybe.

Exiting the app you stare at it on your home screen in your hand, thumb hovering over it. You press down and make it tremble.

Uninstall.

In the brief moment of bitterness you experience, you would have like to have blocked him first, but you weren’t to know. You were just won over by his niceties. Total deletion of all potential suitors – digitally at least - provides a little bit of catharsis.

But it still hurts. Adam hasn’t left you with a gaping wound, he’s just poured salt into the one that’s still healing.

You sit with the disappointment for a few minutes and let it wash away. When it leaves, your mind wanders back to the happier events of last night – your newly discovered hideout.

In theory, it shouldn’t be engrossing, but it is. The way he knows how to pair a garnish with a spirit. Your only equivalent is how to match peanut butter to jelly. There’s history, alchemy, and wisdom at play behind a single drink.

Content with your recollecting, you drag yourself up from the confines of your mattress. Your jeans are strewn across the seat of the chair that sits in the corner of the room and your jacket hangs over the back of it. Padding over to it, you go through your pockets to look for your debit card before it got thrown in the laundry. A piece of paper is wrapped around it – your check from last night. $36 on the nose and a note scrawled in ballpoint on the top of the receipt.

11.30. Thanks.

Your brain runs a quick scan through the memories of twelve hours ago. Laughing, people clinking their glasses together, that sweet fucking cherry. Then onto how your evening ended – with an invitation to do it all over again. Your stomach flips in the opposite direction this time. To feel the bass of the music rumble through your chest, to marvel over the décor from an unknown period. To see your bartender once more.

The rest of the day is nothing out of the ordinary, you work your way through the usual weekend to do list – laundry, watering the plants, preparation for the week ahead. There’s no dinging from your phone to distract you from it anymore.

Unlike last night, there’s no rush to get ready. Time is on your side but it feels odd not getting started until around nine o’clock. There’s enough time to apply a full face of make up if you wanted but you don’t. You keep it simple again – just mascara and the same lipstick from last night – no pressure to make a first impression. After getting a feel for the dress code – or lack thereof – it’s an easy decision of all black. A black skater dress, black boots and the same black leather jacket.

The cab stops at the same spot it did last night but you’re ten minutes early. The air is just as cool but there’s no sense of danger in it tonight – you know how it works – the buzzer, the password. Other than the gravel crunching under your as you walk down the dark alley way, it’s deathly quiet compared to the inside of the building.

“Hey”

“Fuck!” you gasp and it bounces off the surrounding walls and into the night.

Frozen to the spot you’re standing in you look for the voice. Squinting through the darkness, you see Joel is squatting against the black wall under the metal stairs with a cup of coffee between his legs as you clutch at your chest.

“M’sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you” he groans, straightening up to stand.

“No it’s…wasn’t expecting anyone down here”

“C’mon” he says, throwing back the last of his coffee with a hard swallow.

He takes the lead and whips out a set of keys from his pocket to open the sliding metal door that seemed like a fortress last night. Stepping inside, he closes the door behind him. You bypass it all this time; the hosts, the reservation confirmation. This time, you’re ushered through the busy tables, through the floor to your seat. All with a large palm resting at the base of your spine guiding you. You’re warmed through before an ounce of liquor passes your lips.

Your spot for the evening is at the opposite end of the bar than you were at last night. The stool itself doesn’t match the others. With a tray full of empty glasses to your right, and the entrance to the bar to your left, you realize you’ve been seated at the service area - or what was the service area. Still, you hope it means you won't have to listen to other couples’ wedding plans again.

It doesn’t take away from the mood though. The room is just as busy, just as electric with new patrons arriving for the last slot of the night. Joel takes his place at his station and adjusts the sleeves of white shirt that are rolled tight around his elbow. After he prepares himself, he brings a bottle of water and glass over to you and pours a small measure of it.

“Welcome back” he smiles, reaching underneath him to produce and places it along side your water.

The menu is more inviting tonight. It doesn’t seem as weighty as it did previously. It’s intriguing now. Opening the cover, you delve into segments of history printed on the pages inside under the guise of beverages. The cocktails that started out as sugar, water and liquor to the explosion of cocktails in the 1920s – sours and bubbly drinks and then turn into a variety of more tropical drinks by the mid-century.

Before you have a chance to even consider any, a large hand slides a drink towards you across the marble. You were so glued to the pages of the menu, you didn’t even hear the crashing of ice or the rattle of metal instruments against glass. You’ve just been served another amber-colored drink in the same glass as the old fashioned with a lemon peel on resting on the rim. You don’t even get an opportunity to say thank you because he’s already straining out two more drinks.

The waft of the fresh citrussy rind makes your mouth salivate, feeling the tartness of it in your jaw as it sits pretty in front of you. Bringing it to your mouth, first sip is different than the two drinks you had last night. This is fiery and ashy. The wet flames of the ginger that lash across your tongue are followed by the taste of smoky liquor that leaves a sooty coating across your lips.

It's a big drink. A sip feels like a chug. He’s not seeking any approval from you this time. All of his attention is focused on slapping a sprig of mint together between his palms ahead of making sure its leaves fan out perfectly across an ice cube. And you’re glad. It’s crafted beautifully again, it’s just a packs a strong punch you weren’t anticipating.

Still, you nurse it, becoming accustomed to its peated intensity while you reacquaint yourself with the room you left twenty four hours ago. Your head finds the right tempo to nod along to the music and the open fire wraps its warmth around you. The conversations happening around you that mold together into one steady timbre finds your ears and your drink continues to find your lips.

Everyone orders drinks quicker tonight and he has to pick up his pace to keep up. A constant stream of servers come and go from the bar counter to collect and drop tipples to tables. You thought that maybe you might have a chance at a conversation tonight, that he might be a little more forthcoming with the names of the drinks he’s serving you. But at the rate he’s working; pouring, stirring and shaking through gritted teeth to get them onto a waiter’s tray despite himself, it begins to look like a big ask.

Almost as if he could read your mind, like he could sense the hunger for knowledge emanating from you, he leans his body over the counter, pausing the drink he’s shaking in one hand to state;

“Penicillin”

“What?”

He doesn’t explain. He just nods at the glass in your hand to tell you it’s official title.

He’s too busy. Too busy doing his own dance in the small space his body occupies behind the counter. Too busy grabbing and stretching, twisting and lifting his limbs. He doesn’t move in time to the music coming through the speakers but rather to the rhythm of the specs of each drink he’s come to know by heart. None of his actions answer any of the questions that came to mind themselves this morning. You think you might just have to Google why whole eggs go in drinks.

Your impromptu reservation had been scheduled later than you would normally go out. In fact, when you did, it’s usually a time you’d be in bed already. Even last night proved that to be true. The hour of the day, the unexpected emotion that a blocking from a stranger brought and the drink in your hands that you carry on consuming, brings along a fatigue that makes itself known to you.

From your improvised seat at the bar you can see Joel is tired too. The sweat that grasps onto his hairline and the strands of it sticking out of place makes you wonder how long his shift is. Other than the quick break you met him on, he hasn’t stopped moving. When there aren’t drinks to be made, there’s fruit to chop or a fridge to restock. The only time he leaves his workspace is to replenish his ice wells.

On one of those trips, he manages to take a second to check in. It’s good timing too; there’s hardly anything left in your glass but melting ice and lemon.

“You allergic to anything? Can make you somethin’ else?” he proposes, almost breathlessly.

You bite down on your bottom lip trying to squash a grin before it has a chance to paint itself across your face.

“Penicillin” you chuckle truthfully.

“I’ll keep that in mind” he purses his lips together, standing with his hands on his hips again.

Swiping the glass away from you, he dumps any remaining contents into the sink below his waist before setting it on the tray. His grip lingers around it and his thumb rubs at the stain of your plum lipstick on the edge, smearing the oil of it further around the rim. His eyes settle on your lips before darting upwards to meet your gaze under a furrowed brow as you look on intently.

“What’s next?” he sighs, wiping his hands on the cloth that hangs from the side of his apron.

“I…have no idea” you admit. You did look at the menu, but draw a blank on all of it.

He carries on studying you while he formulates a drink with your pleasure potentially at stake. You thought he might know what you like and what you don’t, what makes your mouth water and what dries it out. It won’t matter what he puts in front of you, you’ll try it.

You can tell he’s made a decision when he proceeds to turn away from you and begins to gather materials. Glassware, three bottles of various shapes and sizes all poured over crushed ice tied together with two of those cherries on a skewer. There’s no stirring or shaking involved – no show.

In all, it probably takes under a minute before he serves it in front of you, leaving again only to come back with a red and white striped paper straw. He slides it down the edge and leaves you with that signature nod. It’s a silent cheers. A silent you’re welcome. A silent enjoy.

Learning to leave those cherries until the end, you take them off and set them on the napkin. They’re to be savored.

The drink itself is a deep crimson. On first taste it’s all cherry. Then a hint of vanilla follows and after that the slight flavor of the alcoholic base that could be vodka or gin. It’s difficult to tell over the sweetness. It’s the sugar rush you need and decadence you crave. Your eyes close at the combination of delicious flavors all running over your tongue.

As you open your eyes, he’s watching this time. Taking in how your lips keep wrapping around the straw and how the liquid moves down the glass, down your throat while he pops the cap off a bottle of beer with a bar blade clenched in his fist. You can feel your cheeks beginning to burn under his glare, turning shades to match the color of the drink.

Averting your gaze, you open and flick through the pages of the menu again to find its name. It looks similar to the one you considered ordering yesterday. There are cocktails with the ingredients in them separately but not together.

You want to ask, you want to pick his brain about all of it but you lose him to another onslaught of orders. Each drink at his fingertips is made to be cherished. None of them are drinks you knock back in a mouthful.

They’re made to be laughed over, to reminisce over memories with, to accompany a deep conversation, and to be discussed themselves. Why certain elements of them compliment each other and why some don’t. He knows all of these things. So far, you’ve only come to know what you like and what you could take or leave – a lesson of sorts in itself. Though your mouth is content, your thirst for answers hasn’t yet been quenched.

Time seems to move faster inside these four walls. Like you aren't just coming to the end of your second drink. Like you haven't spent most of your night watching a stranger do their job because just as you lift the cherries to your lips, the lights flick on and off twice signally last orders.

Eventually, waiters start to drop checks to tables and customers pay their tabs. The tip jar beside the register starts to fill with bills. Slowly, people start to peter out of the building to carry on their night somewhere else or head home satisfied. You fish your own debit card out from your jacket pocket and absentmindedly tap the edges of the counter waiting on your check, preparing to say goodbye again. Somehow, over everything, he hears it.

“Hang around for thirty minutes. I can give you a ride home” he offers, taking your card and running it through the register as he carries on speaking.

“I can get an Uber don’t worry about it”

“Tough ‘round here on a Saturday. Trust me”

"Alright. Thanks" you accept.

As the evening draws to an end for you and everyone else, the same applies to your bartender. His earlier choreography slows down to a lazy waltz. He’s not frantically reaching for bottles from the shelves behind him or mixing anything. He doesn’t have to crack the heel of his palm against solid steel to open tins.

One by one, he polishes his own fingerprints off the bottles he’s used so they continue to gleam under the lights. All of the fresh fruit goes back into the fridges behind him. His tools get thrown into another tray along with the glasses that waiters collect and bring to the back. The stainless steel gets dismantled, sprayed, and wiped down. Lids get screwed on jars of olives and cherries. Everything has its place.

When the curtain closes behind the last couple to exit, the host turns up the lights and the room illuminates. The details that the candlelight failed to highlight are visible. He’s visible now. There’s more shades of gray in the scruff around his jaw than you caught sight of last night. The little cuts that have healed and turned into shiny scars on his hands where he’s nicked himself with a knife shine under the bright fluorescence and the shirt that's survived another round of battle against his the expanse of his shoulders.

The saxophones and pianos stop playing next. It makes the deep breath he takes through puffed out cheeks more noticeable while he stares out at the empty venue - a decent night's work. It’s quickly followed by the sounds of the metal clasps holding his apron in around his legs being undone. He lifts it over his head and soothes his chest where the strings had been pulled taut against his frame all evening. His white shirt sticks to patches around his chest with sweat and he pulls the tails of it out from his black jeans.

“Fifteen minutes, tops” he promises you, taking the cash drawer from the register and disappearing through a door at the far end of the room.

While you wait, the waiters work their way through the last tasks of their shift around you, scraping candle wax off tables and rearranging chairs. Even with the crowd gone there’s a warm atmosphere that hangs around – there’s still an odd sense of belonging regardless of the fact you’re not meant to be here still.

It’s easier to read some of the labels on the bottles and admire their logos and shapes. Between two bottles of coffee liqueur there’s a tiny plush sheep. With everything else that surrounds it should look out of place but it doesn’t. It looks at home just as much as the art deco light fixtures.

Joel returns just as he’s pulling down a black t-shirt over his stomach with one hand and a throwing a backpack over his shoulder with the other.

“Ready?”

“Yeah” you answer through the smile that seeing the sheep brought upon you.

He does one last lap of the floor, flicking switches and setting alarms.

“Let’s get out of here” he says, beckoning you towards the exit.

After giving him your address, the drive is quiet. People still line the streets of the downtown area, some are probably only beginning their night, some are ending it but you’re happy with the way yours is closing.

“You ever hear from your guy?” he quizzes, eyes narrowed and fixed straight ahead on the road.

“No”

“Fuckin apps” he curses, shaking his head in disapproval. “Should stay off of ‘em”

“That’s why you brought me back, Joel? A lecture?” you tease.

“No. I wanted to apologize”

“For what?”

“If Rico could have just held on, you could have gotten another drink”

“I did, didn’t I?”

The rest of the drive is silent. There’s no music on the radio, the only sounds come from other cars whooshing past and the tapping of his thumb on the steering wheel when he hits a red light. He probably needs the lack of noise after a shift, after people shouting in his ear and listening to ice cubes thumping off each other all night so you write of the idea of asking the questions that had been brewing in your mind since early morning.

It’s not long before he turns onto your block and his truck pulls to a halt at the corner.

“This you?”

“This is me” you lie. You live around the corner but you’d walk the rest of the way. From previous dates, old habits die hard. “Thanks, Joel. For tonight”

“No problem”

“Hey. The sheep. What’s that about?” you ask, indulging yourself in one question.

“A pipe dream” he answers, calmly.

Music Suggestions

Just for a Day - TM Juke

Roy Roy - Twit One

Because - The Cancel

I Wanna Go Back - Onra

Song For Her Joy - Q Funktion

ALWAYS DRINK RESPONSIBLY.

Penicillin

Ingredients:

2 oz / 60mls of scotch (Chivas Regal, Johnnie Walker)

¼ oz / 5-10mls of single malt scotch (Ardbeg)

¾ oz / 20mls of lemon juice

¾ oz / 20mls of honey ginger syrup**

Lemon rind

Method:

Pour the scotch, lemon juice and syrup into a shaker with ice and shake. Have fun with it, dance with it, lean with it, rock with it.

Strain into a tumbler filled with ice. Over the top, add the malt scotch and garnish with a lemon peel.

**Honey ginger syrup recipe:

A decent piece of ginger root, peeled

½ cup of water

½ cup of honey

Method:

Put it all in a pot and bring to the boil. Reduce the heat and simmer for five minutes and allow to cool. Strain it and keep it in the fridge. This is really good in teas in winter.

The Imbibe (TBD)

Ingredients:

2 oz / 60mls vodka or gin

¾ oz / 20mls of cherry liqueur (Cherry Herring)

¾ oz / 20mls of vanilla liqueur (Galliano)

Luxardo cherries

Method:

In a tall glass filled with ice (doesn’t have to be crushed, just whatever you have) pour all the above in and stir. Garnish to your heart’s content with the amount of cherries. That’s it. Easy peasy. You can mess around with the amounts of liqueurs depending on how you want it. Almond liqueur would also work in place of vanilla.

Non-alcoholic Mule

Ingredients:

2 oz / 60mls pineapple juice

1 oz / 30mls lime juice

Ginger beer

Method:

Fill a glass with ice. Pour over the pineapple and lime juice and top with the ginger beer. Again, you can mess around with the amounts of the juices here to your liking. Voila!

ALWAYS DRINK RESPONSIBLY.

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