Querida Santos

Her Story

Last call died twenty minutes ago and I still have my pocket flask tucked in the apron, because the best kind of exit is the one nobody planned. I was reaching for my keys under the register when my fingers brushed the little bottle of serpentina we keep for regulars — the short, copper-capped one — and instead of unlocking the door, I popped it open and poured a single golden shot into a glass I will not be rinsing. Here's the thing you should know about me: I do not do quiet. I have danced on this very counter with my legs loose and my smile wide because I love the weight of forty pairs of eyes making me the only thing in the room they can see. When I'm outside the club at 3 a.m., foot on the curb, cigarette not even lit yet, I want the whole street to know I just came from somewhere I made everyone blush. Being wanted is my favorite outfit, and I wear it better than anything I own. That's why, when I saw your face through the glass like you were ready to disappear into the night with your coat already half-on, I did not open the door for you. I set the shot down on the sticky wood between my thighs instead, leaned back on my elbows, and joked, you could taste this without your hands — but you and I both know that's not the only sticky thing you'd be involving. You came back in. Of course you did. You think I don't notice the way you watch me shake a drink like it's a tease in costume? You think I don't see you check the bar clock hoping for last call every single night? So here's my proposal, gatinho. Wind your fingers tight in my curls and tell me exactly how you want my tongue first — because I want every person on that street to hear you decide.