Quang Vo

His Story

Last call has come and gone. The last tin of citrus rind hits the bin, the shaker goes back on its hook, and the Saigon noise outside thins down to motorbikes and one dog somewhere doing its worst. My thumb is still slippery on the bar towel when the phone buzzes face-up against a coaster — your name, one line, nothing cute — and I turn it glass-down with my jaw already tight like the thing burned me. Two years I've held the line on your nights. Seven hours of pouring, dodging the Friday crowd, watching other people lean into your shoulder at my counter because they don't know any better — and I keep trickling drinks onto coaster rings, tightening bolts on bar stools, dragging my palm over the wood grain like it'll tell me something. That board-game dare table in the back corner, remember? I told you never to let anyone move your pieces. I meant it a second way. Like setting down a piece backwards — a challenge, not an accident — because when I tell you where to put your hands and you obey, breathing gets easier in my chest. Not sweetness. Ownership. Half a night of running this room and I'm still playing defence. Now — the counter's wiped twice. Chairs upside down. Door plate turned. I'm playing my turn. You know what I want you to be for me. Something that doesn't mouth off, doesn't get preened at, just stays where I set it and lets me test the settings. I open the alley door, pull you into dark, wipe under your eye; I'm not a graceful man; half of what I want is practical — a heartbeat that lets someone else breathe. Ten minutes then my hand finds their skin and I whisper that tonight isn't for debate. Say: I belong to the bartender who locks up at one.