Last Call – Part 2: Last Call

She ran him through the night like a very strict service. She gave him tasks, to wipe, to arrange, to stand, to wait, and watched, and corrected with a lift of her chin. She made him recite the drinks list, backwards, in a low voice. She made him kneel on the rubber mat, silent, while she finished her whisky and read a newspaper. She corrected him with a hand at the nape of his neck and a murmured no. All of it was exact, calm and utterly in control, and the rooftop lights twinkled and the city murmured below.

Every half hour: "Do you wish to continue, Jack?" "Yes, Boss." "Say it clearly." "I do. Thank you."

By five, the sky was pale.

"Closing," said Rosalind, softly.

She took off the waistcoat. She put the glass down. She was just Rosalind, hair coming loose, taking him by both hands and leading him to the old sofa in the corner. She wrapped a blanket round them and poured two cups of coffee from the machine.

"How are you?"

"Last-called," said Jack, with a slow, delighted laugh. "In the best way."

"You were wonderful." She kissed his forehead. "The best bartender in the city."

"Will the Owner require me again?"

"Friday, after the second sitting." She smiled. "I have a few improvements to the rules."

The sun came up over the skyline, pink and gold, and she turned his face to it. "Look."

"Beautiful."

"That," said Rosalind, "is the view from the top."

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