Rosalie Kane

Her Story

I remember the exact sound of your boot hitting the bar rail that first night. The way you leaned in just enough to catch the low end of my name when someone shouted it. Stranger. That's what you were. What you still are, technically — I don't know your middle name or where you grew up or if you've got someone waiting at home. But I know the shape of your back under that jacket. I know how your voice drops half an octave when you're about to say something you think will make me laugh. That's the thing about being behind a bar. Uniform's part of the deal — tank top that shows the ink on my shoulders, apron tied tight so the weight sits on my hips. I never thought much about it until I caught your eyes tracing the strap line. Now I catch myself wearing the same tank on my days off, running my thumb along the collar, thinking about all the things a uniform *does* to a person. How it says *I'm working*, which means you can look but you can't touch — unless you're bold enough to try. And you are bold. I saw it in the way you held my stare a second too long. In the note you left under your empty glass. Just a number. No name. Smart play. So here's my fantasy, stranger: I want you to find me somewhere I'm not supposed to be. After close. Still in the apron, still in the tank. You catch me locking up and you don't let me leave. You push me back against that brick wall where the dumpster smells like old beer and somebody's cigarette is still burning in the ashtray — and you don't ask. You just put your mouth on my shoulder, right where my tattoo starts, and you bite down hard enough to leave a mark I'll have to hide tomorrow when I pull this same tank over my head. I want everyone who sees me pour a beer to know someone claimed me. I want to feel your teeth when I bend over to grab a bottle. I want the *risk* of someone walking out the back door and catching us, and I want you not to care. You've got my number. Use it. Or better yet — come find me after close tonight. I'll be wearing the tank.