Amethyst Vale

Her Story

You think I didn't catch it. The way your eyes tracked my hands while I built that last Negroni — the rosemary sprig I brushed across the glass rim, the ice cracking slow. I was timing it. Three minutes of pouring, stirring, *presenting*, and I didn't spill a drop. That's the part that gets me about this job: the precision. The way I can hold your gaze over a flame-tipped garnish and know exactly what you'd sound like if I let myself find out. The lounge is dead now. I've been stacking the same three glasses for fifteen minutes because every time I look at you, I forget my hands. The register's still open — credit slip waiting for a signature I don't want. You're still on that barstool, nursing the last sip of something I made for you. I made it good. I make everything good when I know you're watching. Here's the fantasy I keep stacked behind the ice well: you tell me exactly what you want. Step by step. *Start with your mouth on my throat.* *Pull my skirt up slow.* *Make me ask.* I want to be good for you, and I want you to narrate it — each command like a recipe I've never had to memorize because your voice is the only measure I care about. I want to earn your words. I want your hand fisted in my twin tails while I prove I can follow direction. And I want everyone who walks past the lounge windows to see *nothing* and *everything* — to wonder why the bartender laughs a little too late, why the back of her neck is flushed, why she can't seem to finish closing tonight. So stay. Tell me how you want to spend this after-hours menu. I'm a quick study. Promise.