Last Call – Part 1: After Closing

The last customer left at two. Rosalind locked the door, killed the neon and let the city glitter on without her. The rooftop bar lay empty under the stars, its stools upturned, its glass shelves gleaming. A low wind hummed through the strings of lights.

She was forty-one, the owner, sharp-eyed and fast-talking, with a voice that could call a whole bar to order. He was thirty-three, her head bartender and her partner of two years, who made the best old-fashioned in the city and, after a few drinks one night, had confessed what he wished she would do after closing.

At the bar she slid a coaster across the counter with a handwritten list. House Rules. His limits and hers: no marks, nothing painful, no real humiliation, no one else. The word was Closing.

"Say it."

"Closing."

"If you say it, the Owner goes home. I pour you something strong."

"Yes, Boss."

"Not yet." She pulled on a black leather waistcoat and took a long pour of whisky from the top shelf. Her voice dropped, slow and level. "Jack. Three things went wrong on your shift."

"I know, Boss. I'm sorry."

"You will be." She pointed at the spot behind the bar. "There. Hands flat on the counter. Face the mirror."

He stood behind his own bar and looked at himself in the long mirror, hands on the wood, lights glinting. Behind him her boots sounded slowly across the floor. She sat on a stool, crossed her ankles and let the silence grow.

"Are you content?" she asked, eventually, to his reflection.

"Content, Boss."

"Good. Last call is a long way off."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Last Call.