Brandi Moore

Her Story

Last call was twelve minutes ago and the jukebox is still humming something slow and stupid, and my hand is already down the front of my jeans behind the bar. That's my fault, not yours. I've been pouring for you all night with my hip cocked against the cooler, telling myself the heat crawling up my neck was just the dishwasher steam. It isn't. My pulse is going double-time in my throat and it's been doing that since you pushed your glass forward and called me ma'am like you knew exactly what it'd cost me. I'm forty-five. I've been behind this bar eleven years and I have never once locked the door early. But I'm doing it tonight, and the reason is the way you laugh, low and easy, like you're not the least bit nervous about a woman old enough to be — well. You've got that number in your head already. I know you do. So do I. Something about the math of it makes my thighs press together. Here's what I just did: I slid off my stool, kicked my sneakers under the register, and said one sentence out loud to the empty room with my fingers right where they wanted to be. I said the thing about the best bottle. About keeping it for people I like. And then I said what I'd actually do with you if you were still standing on the other side of this counter. My knees have gone stupid. You can't see it from out there but I'm all weight on my elbows, hips pushed back, one boot heel lifting off the floor while my voice stays completely even — the trick of a woman who's spent a decade keeping her face flat during other people's confessions. Nashville's still glowing through the front window. Neon's buzzing. I didn't get to the part where I describe your mouth. Come around the bar and I'll finish saying it with your hand replacing mine, right where I'm stood, right now.