The Barmaid Blog™: Life for a 20-something Manhattan Barmaid

Friday evening, for the first time since January, I see Bonnie. I don't see her at the Bar in her old Coors gear, or run into her on the subway; I see her on the side of a bus stop shelter in midtown. She's gazing at me seductively from a fashion advertisement, and it absolutely stops me in my tracks. I'm grateful that Jenny isn't with me, because although she knows about Bonnie, I don't know if she'd understand my need to stop and stare. Before I can convince my feet to move again, I start to remember what it was like for someone to have that much control over me just by looking at me or saying my name. Obsession isn't love, but being owned so completely can be just as overwhelming.

Eventually I peel myself from my spot on the sidewalk and finish my trip to the Bar, making a mental note to avoid that corner for a while.

As I walk in, I see Tony and Carl sitting at the far end of the bar, and they both get up to give me a hug. I'm running a little late, so I promise them we'll catch up shortly, and I run to the back room to drop off my bag. After I've checked in with Jocelyn and Maya, I check in on the boys with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in my hand.

"How's your girlfriend, girlfriend?" Carl grins.

"She's good, thanks. Working hard, as always. And she asked me to move in with her."

"Holy cow," says Tony. "That's huge! Are you gonna do it?"

I smile. "I don't know, to be honest. It's fast, and her asking was sudden. I've got a couple of months to decide before I have to renew my lease with my roommates, so I'm not thinking about it much right now. But it sure would be convenient - I haven't taken the subway this much since I was a grunt at a publishing house."

"You don't move in with someone because it's convenient, Debra," Tony lectures.

Carl snorts at his boyfriend. "Who do you think you're kidding? This is New York, my friend. You moved in with me because I had a balcony and a wide-screen TV!"

"Don't you believe him, Debra," Tony wags his finger, "I moved in with him because he cooked the best risotto I've ever tasted." I laugh, and leave them in order to serve some other customers.

"Where's Mario tonight?" I ask Jocelyn a little while later. He isn't always there when she's working, but it's unusual for him to miss a Friday night.

"Oh, he's away for the weekend with Angelo. They went to Atlantic City, I think."

"You didn't want to go with them?"

"Nah, I'm not much for gambling. Besides, it's good for them to have a boys' weekend every now and then."

"So what are you doing Sunday?"

She shrugs. "I don't know, what am I doing Sunday?"

"Come over to my place, the girls and I are doing our traditional bagel brunch and watching the Yankees-Mariners game, and Jenny will be there. I'd love for you to get to know her."

She bounces a little (which makes her enormous breasts bounce a lot), and says, "Hey, that'd be great!"

At a little after ten o'clock, Susan and Grace, the current Coors promo girls assigned to work the Bar, enter and start making their way through our customers. As far as I know, Grace doesn't know anything about the woman she replaced or why she left; she just happened to be next. Susan on the other hand stops by the bar to say hi, and gives my hand a squeeze.

"Have you seen her ad?" I ask, and she nods. "I don't think I was prepared for it," I add.

Susan shakes her head. "Nobody has ever been prepared for anything about Bonnie," she says, and turns to dive back into the morass. For the first time, I wonder if Bonnie seduced her, too, or if she's talking about something else entirely, and then I decide it doesn't really matter. The very next thought in my head is to try to remember who actually paid for the enormous leather sectional couch in my apartment, and whether my roommates Cassie and Jill will want to keep it when I leave.

When I leave. I've already started to make up my mind, haven't I? I think to myself. And for a moment - just a moment - I bounce a little, too.

(Many thanks to Bridget E. Wilde of Bewildered Art for permission to use her Barmaid Fox drawing as a userpic.)

It's a couple of Thursdays ago, and while most of the people in the Bar are watching the Yankees walk all over the Kansas City Royals, I've got one television tuned to college hockey. It's not even really for me, though I'm watching when I have the chance; it's for Will. It's the first time he's been back here since Samantha died, and we're all naturally worried about him. But for the moment, he's sitting at the bar talking to Mario, and Maya - Samantha's friend, and the reason she started coming here and met Will in the first place - is mostly just standing there and listening to him. Simone and I are taking up the slack willingly.

Notre Dame is playing Michigan in the national men's hockey semifinals, and they've jumped out to a 3-0 lead. Will has said in the past that he doesn't really care that much about Michigan's hockey team, even though he played on their football team, but it's the reason he's supposedly here, and he keeps shaking his head as things look bleaker and bleaker. During the second intermission, after Michigan has finally made a game of it by scoring two in a row, Will asks me a question I'd sort of been hoping wouldn't come up. But I suppose if it was to come up at all, it's best coming from him, because the main reason I wasn't going to talk about it was not to rub it in his face. "How's things with you and Jenny?"

"They're good, thanks. We've been spending a lot of nights together." Maya slips off to serve some customers so that I can stick around and talk for a while.

"Is it love?" he asks, the second reason I was going to avoid the subject.

"I have no idea, Will." And that's the honest truth. "But whatever it is, it feels very good."

"Okay, I'm - listen, I'm only going to say this once, but I'm sorry, there's just no way I can let it go without saying it at all, it's just who I am... can I, uh... please come over and watch it feeling good sometime?" Will finishes by smiling the most innocent smile. If it were anybody else but him, I might actually be a little angry, but with Will I have to laugh - and I have to be relieved that he's in a good mood.

"I'll make you a deal - as soon as New Hampshire wins the Frozen Four, you can videotape Jenny and me having sex."

Mario laughs, but Will just sticks his hand out for a shake. "You've got a deal, Debra. And you've made a brand-new New Hampshire fan." I wonder, for a moment, what I've gotten myself into... and then I wonder for a few more moments whether Jenny and I will still be together when next year's Frozen Four arrives, much less whenever my alma mater finally wins one. We've never really talked long-term.

Will sips from his Anchor Steam. "So how did you and Jenny meet, anyway?"

"Oh, it was a blind date. It's all her fault," I say, pointing to Simone, who's a few yards away trying to convince a customer that she doesn't really want to order a tall glass of Goldschläger on the rocks. "We road-tripped up to New Hampshire for a few days in mid-December. I met her family, we hung out at their brewpub in Portsmouth, then she came with me to see UNH play hockey against Maine... we got totally socked in by a snowstorm that weekend, and ended up raiding her Dad's wine cellar. She was bitching about the pressure she was feeling to get a boob job, I was bitching about the online dating thing, and suddenly she said, 'Hey, you and this lawyer I know would totally hit it off.' So she gave Jenny my e-mail and here we are."

"Wait," says Mario, "how did Simone know Jenny in the first place?"

"Oh, I think Simone used to be a Starbucks barista across from the courthouse in Brooklyn Heights, and Jenny used to come in a lot, or something."

"Nice," nods Will. "You really never know how you're going to..." He can't seem to finish the sentence, and looks away as he drinks more of his beer. Mario puts his arm around Will's shoulders. I really don't know what to do except reach for his hand on the bar, and give it a squeeze before I go back to serving drinks. When Michigan finally loses to Notre Dame in overtime, 5-4, Will has long since left for home.

More random conversation snippets I've recently overheard while tending bar:


Dude #1: Who's in your Final Four?
Dude #2: Rachel McAdams, Tyra Banks, Ali Larter, and Elizabeth Hurley.
Dude #1: That's not what I was talking about.
Dude #2: I know, but just imagine the spread on the title game.


Chick #1: I just can't believe Spitzer paid that girl four thousand dollars for one night. I'm totally in the wrong line of work.
Chick #2: I don't know... you probably wouldn't get to choose who you have sex with. Spitzer's an ugly motherfucker.
Chick #1: I don't choose what ad accounts I work on, either! And I hate some of those assholes.
Chick #2: Yeah, but the guy kept his socks on. That's so weird.
Chick #1: Honey, for four grand a night, he can dress up as Kermit and call me Piggy.


Suit #1: Man, I've never been so glad I got out of Bear Stearns stock.
Suit #2: Seriously - J.P. Morgan got a hell of a bargain there.
Suit #1: I think the Yankees paid more for A-Rod!
Suit #2: Yeah, and Bear Stearns and A-Rod have won the same number of World Series.


Dude: Can I buy you a drink?
Chick: No hablo inglés.
Dude: ¿Bien, puedo comprarte una bebida?
Chick: Ich spreche nicht Spanischen.


Suit: Hey, honey, what time do you get off?
Cindy the Barmaid: About a half hour after I stop thinking about you.

Thanks very much to Barmaid Blog reader Carrie for the lovely birthday gift from my Amazon wish list, the new PostSecret collection "A Lifetime of Secrets." It did indeed put a smile on my face - many smiles, in fact.

I hate it when the World Series only goes four games.

No matter who plays in the Series, business is always great and the tips flow freely - and as with most of the other big tip nights, the most senior barmaids get first crack at working those nights. And I'm the most senior; I have been for nearly a year. The difference here is that if I sign up to work Superbowl Sunday, at least I know the Superbowl will actually happen.

So here I am working on Monday night, my sixth night on in a row, which I hate to do unless there's a really good reason, and the Dr. Suess Series ("Rox vs. Sox") is already over. The Red Sox have won their second Series (and second Series sweep) in four years, and there's talk about how the "Nation" is already getting as obnoxious and entitled as we Yankees fans supposedly are (or have been, or were), but whatever they're doing tonight, they're not doing it here. Monday Night Football is always good for a decent crowd, but for whatever reason Green Bay and Denver isn't a marquis matchup for customers of The Bar, so it's not a good crowd. Maya and I are doing a lot of hurry up and wait.

The one real saving grace is a group of five women in business suits drinking at my end of the bar. They've clearly had some success in whatever their field is, because they're treating themselves to a significant amount of top shelf liquor - premium vodka martinis, single malt Scotches, even an Opus One wine, something we don't advertise we carry unless someone asks for something of its caliber - and round after round of it. Unlike a lot of the women who drink here, they're holding it pretty well and not making asses of themselves. Best of all, even though one of them gave me a credit card to hold onto and run a tab for them, there's been a steadily growing pile of cash in front of their spot on the bar with my proverbial name on it. Unless my experienced barmaid's eyes are mistaken, they're tipping me two or three dollars a drink, which might just make my sixth night on in a row worth getting through.

I love it when customers know how to make me happy - it makes me want to make them happy, and then everybody has a good night.

"How long have you been doing this?" asks one of them as I'm serving another round. They're all probably in their thirties, and this one is the tallest and by all indications the leader of the group, if not in the office, then certainly in The Bar.

"A little more than four years," I reply, and clear away the last of the previous round's empties.

"I don't know how your feet can take it," she says. "I lasted less than a year."

"Oh, where did you tend bar?" I guess that helps explain the generous, and cash, tips.

"A little dive near the University of Arizona, where I was going to school."

"Hey, I'm a Wildcat, too! Just the University of New Hampshire variety."

"That's funny! I've never been up there, but I hear it's pretty."

"Likewise with me and Tucson."

"Yeah, I miss it all the time - I'd go back to visit, but I don't really know anybody there anymore. And my firm doesn't recruit from their law school, so I can't sign up for a free business trip."

There's a pause, and my experienced barmaid's sense of timing leads me to say, "Well, just let me know if you ladies need anything else." I go to enter their drinks on the register, and out of the corner of my eye I see a few more bills land on the pile of cash.

I've been talking a good game these last several months about making it back to New Hampshire for a visit, but with Jessica's wedding, my other trip to California, my problems with Gary and our eventual break-up, and working long hours here, I haven't gotten around to it. And now it's hockey season again, and UNH's men's team is 3-0-0 and ranked #4 in the country.

Well, right now I'm free of obligations to anybody but myself. I haven't been at UNH or seen a UNH hockey game since 2002, and it's time to do something about that. I resolve to look up their schedule when I get home, pick a weekend, and just go.

It's well past midnight when the Wildcat and her crew pack it in for the night, vowing to return some other time. I wait an appropriate interval after they're out the door before scooping up what they've left me, and giving it a quick glance with my experienced barmaid's counting eye.

It's close to two hundred dollars.

They just paid for my weekend in New Hampshire, it occurs to me. I start to think about ice and sharp skate blades, about hot chocolate and tattoo parlors, about local hockey fans and the smell of wood burning in a fireplace. And I smile.

Todd Rundgren plays on The Bar's jukebox, a sappy, needy ballad that seems out of place on a semi-rowdy Saturday night. Cleveland and Boston are playing baseball on our televisions, and they've been battling it out for what seems like ten or twelve hours already, with the game now in extra innings. For reasons I've never quite understood (other than the obvious financial bottom line), as much as this is a Yankees bar, other teams' fans are strongly encouraged to drink here anytime their season extends past the Yankees' - which is more often than usual these last few years, I suppose. So the place is packed, with a ratio of about three Indians fans to every Red Sox fan.

Jocelyn pokes me in the side as she passes on her way to the wines, and yells over the din, "Wake up, Debra!" I'm having kind of a hard time maintaining an appropriate level of interest in what my customers want and how frequently their glasses are empty. It could be the Yankees' seventh-in-a-row early departure from the playoffs several days ago distracting me, but I doubt it. When I have a spare moment I turn to the top shelf and glance at the usual suspects. I finally choose the Macallan 12, and pour myself a finger.

Here's to you knowing me better than I know myself, I toast internally, and drink my Scotch.

The crowd erupts in cheers, and I see that Cleveland has scored on a Trot Nixon RBI single to go ahead in the eleventh inning. It's the wee hours of the morning already, far past the usual time for even night baseball, but I've got nothing against people staying longer and drinking more. Indeed, I'm almost hoping the Sox tie it up in the bottom of the eleventh so that I can sell more beer, and get more tips.

Here's to independence, I toast, and drink some more Scotch.

But that tie becomes far less likely after Cabrera scores on a wild pitch, and then a short while later, Martinez comes home on Garko's own single. So now it's 9-6, and the atmosphere is festive. I can barely keep up with the orders, but I find time to pour myself some more Scotch as I go.

Here's to the law of unintended consequences, I think, and then I drink.

The score has somehow become 10-6 without my even noticing, and Vince is even having trouble keeping the cooler filled with beer. My cell phone vibrates for the first time in days, and my heart leaps with a bizarre mix of hope and cynical certainty. Ignoring my usual habit of waiting to look, I take an immediate glance at it. It's a text message from my friend Henry, comprising exactly three words: "What the hell?!" It's like a punch in the gut spreading guilt to the rest of my body. I take a deep breath, delete the message without responding, and pour myself another finger of Macallan.

Here's to the power of public humiliation - his and hers, a matching set. And down it goes.

Gutierrez puts the final nail in the coffin with a three-run homer, and everybody goes berserk. Jocelyn and I are in the weeds, just barely keeping up. When Boston is back up at the plate, and clearly not about to have a similar seven-run rally, the place gets so loud I can barely hear the orders. A big girl in a Cleveland cap orders a couple of cosmos, and I reach behind me for a shaker and two glasses, without even looking.

"Debra!!" Jocelyn runs over, grabs my shaker hand, and nearly knocks me over - the glasses in my other hand slam into the bar, and shatter. Somehow, I escape without a scratch.

"What the hell?!" I scream, and the indignance of the phrase resonates in my throat with irony.

She holds up my shaker hand, and it's not holding a metal shaker, I'm holding a metal bottle. "You almost mixed some drinks in Eddie," Jocelyn says.

"Well, what the hell was he doing next to the shakers," I rationalize. It's not my fault, these things just happen. The intervention of another human being in a well-laid plan. Mistakes were made. Nothing to see here... move along.

I overmix for the two cosmos, so that after I fill both glasses, I have a good, long slug left for myself. Soon the game is over, and although a decent part of the crowd sticks around to celebrate, it's very late. Soon enough it's down to a few regulars, die-hards, and disbelieving Red Sox fans, and before long even they have to leave. It's after four in the morning, and I'm not numb enough yet for my feet not to hurt.

After cleanup and another couple of fingers of Macallan, I manage to get a taxi with ease. "Brooklyn," I tell the cabbie when I get in, and then I tell him which intersection.

He hesitates when he hears the street names. "At four-thirty in the morning?" he says. "Are you sure?"

I don't have the time or the patience for this. "Are you turning down a twenty-dollar fare?" He shakes his head, and activates the meter. I send a text message reading "On my way," and then I close my eyes, waiting for the dread to go away.

I catnap for part of the ride, in my warm, fuzzy, Scotch-induced blanket. At this hour the traffic is light, so it's not even five when he pulls up in front of the building. He makes good on his promise and waits until he sees the door's been buzzed open for me before he drives off. I take my time climbing the three flights of stairs, not in the mood to be out of breath or to stumble, and when I arrive on the landing, the door is already open.

Bonnie stands there in a white kimono and slippers, looking down into my eyes, looking for - what? I avoid her gaze by staring at the curves in the silk where it meets her body, trying to remember how to breathe, trying to understand the red patterns in the design despite the poor hallway lighting and the Scotch in my eyes. The quiet fills the landing, and all I can think about is how badly I want to know what her skin smells like. My stomach is still on its way up the stairs, I feel like I want to start crying, and she holds out her hand.

I let Bonnie lead me into her apartment and close the door, and then I let her lead me into her room and close that door. And then I let her lead me, and lead me, and lead me, and that closes another door, probably forever. Her skin smells of freedom, and choices, and collateral damage, and burnt bridges. Friction drowns out the emptiness. Sweat silences the pain. Rhythm suffocates the guilt. And as the sun slowly starts to rise over Bushwick, our cries justify everything. Everything.

Two Weeks Ago (Friday, August 31)

It's a warm, busy Friday evening. The Devil Rays are gradually having their way with the Yankees, bending them over just a little bit more each inning. Maya and Kira and I are holding our own; another couple of dozen customers and we'd be in the weeds, but it's the beginning of Labor Day weekend, so a lot of people have left town.

There's no mistaking it anymore; anybody who looks at Kira knows she's pregnant, and to her pleasant surprise she seems to have found the one thing that guarantees good tips even more than huge breasts. It's a little counterintuitive, maybe, since being pregnant means she's even less likely to go home with any customers than usual, but it's certainly nice to see people treating her well. That's especially true since she's determined to keep working until she decides she can no longer stay on her feet for an entire shift.

Bonnie and Susan, the Coors promo girls, are in the Bar tonight getting guys to play their music trivia game, giving out swag, and drinking bottles of Coors like they're going out of style. When they take a break, Bonnie seems uncharacteristically silent, but Susan comes behind the bar, coos at Kira's tummy, and even gets permission to lay her hands on it for a minute. Nothing's moving around in there much yet, but Susan still gets... well, a kick out of it.

There's time for a quick break right around when the baseball game ends, and I take myself to the ladies room for a bio break and to splash water on my face. When I come out, Bonnie is waiting in the short hallway, taking a pull from her bottle of Coors with one arm, and with the other holding out a full bottle for me. "Take five, Debra," she says, after swallowing. She's a little flushed from what must be six or seven beers by now. I smile and take the beer, and we lean up against the wall next to each other while people come and go.

She asks me what's going to happen when Kira takes her maternity leave, and the truth is that I don't know. I imagine Lanie and Victor, the owners, will hire someone temporary, or maybe they'll beg us all to work more shifts, but it'll all work out somehow.

"Debra, when did you do... that with your hair?"

"Oh, I did that while I was on vacation out in California a few weeks ago. What do you think, do you like it?"

Bonnie smiles, and doesn't say anything, but keeps looking right at me.

"What?" I say, getting self-conscious. She rolls off the wall, puts a hand in my hair, and kisses me.

It's such a soft, easy, unexpected kiss that it's the most natural thing in the world for me to kiss back. It's a friendly kiss, a "what if" kiss, a "your new blonde hair turns me on a little and I just want to innocently show you" kiss, a "we've become close enough friends that I can kiss you like this" kiss. And after a while, it's lasted long enough that it's no longer any of those things, it's an "oh, my God" kiss, a "why haven't we ever done this before?" kiss, a "this is really fucking hot" kiss, and an eternity later, as her free arm goes around my waist and pulls me in toward her, and I feel myself start to get wet, it becomes a "shit, what am I doing, what the fuck am I doing?!" kiss, and I push her away.

We're breathing heavily, and not saying anything, just looking at each other, when a random guy standing in the men's room doorway says, "Could you do that again?" Reality comes crashing back in, and without saying a word I turn down the hallway to get back to work. Everything he was worried about, I think to myself, everything I've managed to convince him he's just simply paranoid about, I just became that. And he's going to find out whether I tell him or not. And he's going to learn what kind of person I really am and he's going to leave, and I don't want him to leave, I love him. I love him and I just did the one thing he's been most afraid of since we started dating, and how could I do that when I love him?

The rest of the night I manage to stay behind the bar mixing drinks and earning tips without allowing my eyes to meet Bonnie's. She and Susan leave a little after one in the morning, and I go to the back room and cry.

Sunday late at night I can't sleep, and I can't sit still. I wash pots, clean the bathroom, dust my bookcase, and when that's not enough, I throw on a pair of jeans and take a walk around the neighborhood. It's all bakery deliveries and dog walkers at this hour. It's a little cooler, but still humid, and by the time the sky starts getting lighter about an hour into my walk, my t-shirt is damp - and then the rain starts.

When I finally crawl into bed it's almost six-thirty, and I haven't bothered to dry my stupid blonde hair. My pillowcase quickly sucks up the moisture, and the pillow warms. I stare at Gary's back; his shoulder shifts slowly and almost imperceptibly as he breathes, and sleep doesn't come for me.

Through the wall I hear Jill's clock radio kick on, and then it hits the floor with a crash. Gary stirs, and rolls toward me. "Hey, beautiful," he says. "Still can't sleep?"

"It's been two weeks," I say. "Again."

"Hasn't anything interesting happened at the Bar? You haven't even told me any stories lately."

I hesitate. "No."

"Anybody say anything worth jotting down for an Overheard? And what about your novel? You've been working on that lately, right? You could post another excerpt."

"Yeah... I don't know... maybe I could've done that ten days ago or even a week ago, but after all this time I feel like that would be a cop-out. I need something big, or surprising, or at least interesting, and none of that has happened."

"The Yankees swept the Royals. A-Rod has hit fourteen bazillion home-runs this season."

I smile. "Yeah, but he didn't hit them in the Bar."

"All right, something big and surprising," Gary says. "I love you."

"What?"

"I said I love you, Debra. You're the best thing that's happened to me since I moved to this country."

My eyes heat up, and suddenly I'm very aware of how damp I've made my pillow. My boyfriend reaches for me, and I feel my stomach drop right through the mattress.

For the last month or so, both Gary and I have been feeling a little burnt out. We've both been working hard, and neither of us has had a real vacation in a long time - a chance to get away, relax, and recharge without the pressures of work or the "realities" and responsibilities of home impeding. But because we've only been dating for a few months (and not without a few stumbles), whenever one of us brought the subject up, it wasn't "We should take a vacation," it was "I need a vacation."

Late Tuesday night Gary comes over to my place after his newscast is over, and after he kisses me, the first words out of his mouth are, "Come away with me."

"What?"

"I got one of those super-saver e-mails today, and there's a really unbeatable fare to fly somewhere I've always wanted to go. I want you to go with me. On Friday."

I laugh. "Supah-savah," I mock, and laugh again. Then I stop. "This Friday? Are you serious?"

"Never more. Start making calls, get your shifts covered, I want you to come away with me for ten days."

"Wait, where are we going?"

He grins. "Do you trust me?"

I search his eyes for a moment, and I realize that what I told him on Sunday wasn't a mistake or a slip of the tongue. I love this man. "Just tell me what to pack," I reply.

So I leave him alone on my laptop for a little while to make the reservations, and I start making phone calls. It's late, so I have a little trouble getting hold of some of the girls, but by the time Gary is done I have this weekend covered. By the end of Wednesday, I have next week's shifts covered, too. I'll be working a lot when I get back, but I think it'll be worth it.

Thursday night I'm on with Jocelyn and Simone, and the speculation is rampant.

"I think he's taking you to Vegas to get married," says Jocelyn.

I sputter. "What?! That's ridiculous! We'd never even talked about taking a vacation together up until two days ago, much less spending our lives together."

"Maybe you're going to Chicago to see Lollapalooza. Isn't that next week?" offers Simone.

"I have no idea," I shrug, "but I doubt he's into alternative music enough to fly us out there for ten days just for that."

"Toronto to see the Yankees play?" says Diego.

"Hm... I wouldn't put it past him, but I think we're coming back Monday or Tuesday, so we'd only get to see the first game of the series at most."

"Well, what did he tell you to pack?" asks Jack.

"It's all about the logic with you lawyers, isn't it, Jack?"

"I prefer to think of it as detective work," he smiles.

"Well, I can't help you solve this mystery, because he hasn't told me yet. He said I would have to wait until tomorrow, but he knows for a fact that I have everything I'll need."

"What if what you need isn't clean?" frets Jocelyn.

"He sent out my laundry yesterday."

At this, everybody kind of stops what they're doing for a moment, and all I can hear is the Yankees/Royals game on the TVs. Diego clears his throat, sticks one last beer in the cooler, and says, "I think you should take him to Vegas to get married."

The group gets a nice laugh out of that, then goes back to focusing on the doomed baseball game, or on serving drinks.

And now it's Friday, and I'm packing as I write this, and I still have no idea. Light clothing for days, a sweater or two for nights, a couple of swimsuits, one nice dress, comfortable walking shoes. There's a cab coming to pick us up in a couple of hours, and we're just praying that the rain will hold off long enough to let us fly out on time. I know only two things with certainty right now: I won't be around for the next ten days, and I'm starting to fall in love with this man.

It's a few minutes before I'm really sure I'm awake... my senses cross wires for a moment, and I'm sure I feel coffee on my neck. No, I smell nibbling. When I finally open my eyes, I see the top of Gary's head, and I understand that he's nibbling on my neck, and the coffee must be brewing in the kitchen. As marvelous as the nibbling feels, I'm already stifling a yawn. Even a relatively uneventful Saturday night shift at the Bar is an exhausting one, and we didn't get to my place until almost five in the morning. I turn my head just enough to squint at the clock, and as I notice it's not even 10:30 yet, Gary says, "Good morning, beautiful."

I roll over and bury my face in the pillow, groaning. My evil boyfriend lifts up the covers and starts nibbling the small of my back instead. I lift my face. "If I don't sleep past noon every Sunday, then the terrorists have won."

"Yankees and Devil Rays," he replies, and starts moving lower on my body. Nibble. "Third base line." Nibble. "Twenty-seven degrees and sunny." Nibble. "One o'clock." And at the next nibble, I shiver.

I roll onto my back again. "You're killing me, Kiwi. As long as I'm awake, stop teasing and put that mouth where it'll do some good." He grins, and just to aggravate me further, spends a minute nibbling on my inner thighs before he focuses properly.

A good half hour and half a dozen screams later, someone bangs on my door. "Get out of bed, you slut," my roommate Cassie yells, "I'm not missing warmups!"

Gary comes up for air. "C'mon, then, let's get a quick shower."

"What about you?" I point. "You're - I mean, seriously, you're --"

"Yeah," he laughs. "Well, it'll give us something to think about during the game, won't it?"

I nevertheless take him in my mouth just for a few seconds as a show of good faith, then we grab our towels and wrap ourselves in them. "Where the hell did I find you?" I ask. "And why did you make me promise I wouldn't talk about this stuff on my blog?"

He kisses me, and we head for the bathroom. "Y'know what? Give it a shot. Lay it all out there for once, do your worst, and we'll see how I feel about it. You've got my permission for this one time as an experiment, and then we'll talk about our deal later." I make a mental note not to go overboard anyway, to go a little easy on the details, and we get oursevles clean.

At a quarter to one, we exit the 4 train in the Bronx - Gary, Cassie, my other roommate Jill, and me - and head into the stadium. By one o'clock we're already sitting in our loge level seats on the third-base line and eating hot dogs, and thankfully there's nobody sitting nearby this time to comment on our technique. But remembering that incident plants a thought in my head. I reach over casually and place my hand on Gary's jeans exactly where I know I will find more than his leg, and I lean over to whisper in his ear.

"As a thank-you for this morning - and for letting me blog about this morning - when we get home, I'm going to get you off with my mouth once for every run the Yankees score today."

Gary squirms under my hand. "What? Debra, are you sure? Didn't they light these guys up for seventeen runs last night?"

"Yeah, but that's just it. Even against the Devil Rays, they're not going to do that twice in a row. Besides, Shields has a pretty good ERA. I'm not too worried."

"All right, but remember guys aren't like girls - you get off faster each time if you keep going, we get slower. You might be working pretty hard for the last couple if the Yanks score four or five."

"You should be so lucky, Gary," I grin, and I wash down the last of my frank with some beer.

By the bottom of the fourth inning, the Yankees have scored three runs already, and Gary is having a little fun with it. We've told Cassie and Jill about my little plan, and although Jill seems a little embarrassed by the whole thing, Cassie is enjoying the hell out of it. "What about unearned runs?" she asks. "Does he get a handjob for each of those instead of a blowjob?" Jill blushes a little and fills out her scorecard.

Then the gates burst wide open. The Yankees spend a half hour and fourteen batters scoring ten runs in the fourth inning, and suddenly I owe Gary thirteen orgasms. Cassie is beside herself laughing, and Gary just sits there with a smug look on his face, and says with a shrug, "Hey, it wasn't my idea."

After the bottom of the sixth inning, when the Yankees make it eighteen, Cassie has to excuse herself to the ladies room with tears streaming down her face, and Gary even stops gloating. We're on the subway heading home - after the Yankees end up defeating the Devil Rays by the absolutely humiliating score of twenty-one to four - before anybody mentions it again.

"So," Gary starts, "should I, um... call in sick tomorrow?" Cassie snorts, and even Jill laughs a little.

"I think this is going to hurt you more than it hurts me, mister," is all I can manage.

"It's a chance I'm willing to take. All I know is, you've kept your promises to me up until now, and I've no reason to suspect you're about to stop." I rest my head on his shoulder. "And I'll tell you something else, Debra," he says, a little more quietly. "There's no rule that says I can't do anything more for you until you've settled this account."

"I love you," I hear myself say to him for the first time over the roar of the 4 train, and then I realize what I've done. He reaches his arm around me and pulls me closer, and kisses the top of my head.

Thursday evening, Maya and I are on, with Jocelyn expected later. Most eyes are on the television watching the Yankees, but shortly before eight I hear Bill shout, "Vince!" and half a dozen heads sporting curious looks turn just in time to see the barback in question high-five the bouncer who greeted him. Entering behind him are the reasons we're all so curious, his girlfriend/my roommate Jill, and Vince's father.

Vince hasn't talked much about his past, so we have no idea what to expect - only that Vince's father is in town for a few days for a conference, that Vince wanted him to meet Jill, and that he would be coming back to the Bar after they went out to dinner to see what his son does for a living these days. What we aren't expecting, given that Vince is a wiry, hip-looking, tatooed guy who wears nothing but black jeans and t-shirts, is what walks in the door with Jill on his chivalrously extended arm: A middle-aged man sporting a fancy walking cane, and wearing a tweed jacket with suede elbow patches.

"Everybody, this is my father, the Professor," says Vince as he approaches the bar, and his father introduces himself to Maya and me, and then to Mario and a few other regulars who have gotten to know Vince well.

"What can I get for you, Professor?" I ask.

"Debra, my dear, I would be most grateful and, indeed, most impressed if you were to mix me a burnt fuselage." He smiles warmly.

I freeze for a moment, and then I remember something I read a while back, something about Paris during the Great Depression. I nod and smile back at him, then I turn to the back of the bar and mix equal parts Grand Marnier, dry vermouth, and Courvoisier cognac over ice, with a bit of lemon rind. After four years of doing this, every now and then someone still stumps me, but it won't be tonight. I also mix a cosmopolitan for Jill, and then serve the drinks. The Professor takes a sip, then turns to his son, who's now behind the bar starting his shift, and says, "Vincent, your colleague seems quite knowledgeable. So far, I most heartily applaud your choice of workplace." I beam, and Maya chuckles.

"What did you think of his last job, Professor?" she asks.

"I'm not sure what you mean, young lady. Are you referring to one of the musical combos he traveled with?"

Maya laughs. "Yeah, the punk bands - you know, Cheap Sex and 7 Seconds?"

"Well, personally I thought that 7 Seconds were rather derivative of the Dils, but Vincent seemed to learn an awful lot about life in their employ. And quite frankly, how often do you find a punk rock band capable of conveying a positive message?" With her jaw practically bouncing off the bar, Jill offers a toast to the Professor, while Maya skulks off to the other end of the bar to serve some thirsty Yankee fans. Vince just shakes his head, smiling, and goes off to collect some glasses.

The couple comes into the Bar shortly before the end of the Yankees' 4-1 victory over the Diamondbacks. When the crowd thins out a little post-game, they find a couple of stools, and she orders Beam & Cokes for both of them. She also pays, and thanks me, while he just smiles and nods. I move on to other customers.

"That guy over there thinks you have a beautiful smile," Diego says to me a little while later, as he drops off some dirty glasses in the sink. I look where he's gesturing, and it's the quiet one with the generous girlfriend.

"He told you to tell me that?" I get propositioned for a threesome every now and then, but nobody's ever tried to do it by getting the barback involved as middleman.

"No, he told her." I look again, and finally I notice they're signing to each other. Diego must have... "overseen" him say it.

"Diego, you know sign language?"

"Yes, my wife was deaf."

"So what else has he said to her about me?"

Diego smiles. "I was trying not to pay too much attention, it's rude to... what's the word? Detras de... eavesdrop, right?"

"You're right," I say, and wander back over to check on their drinks, barely noticing that Diego is shaking his head.

I smile at them for a moment. "Can I get you both another?" I enunciate very carefully, in case he's a lip reader.

"Sure," she says, as he nods. As I pour, he starts signing to her. "My brother says to thank you for bringing your bright smile back over here. This end of the bar was... stormy without you. Stormy?" She signs back to him, and he spells something with one hand. "Gloomy."

"Tell him I said thank you, that's very sweet," I say as I set their fresh drinks in front of them. "It's the nicest compliment anybody in this bar has paid me in a long time."

More signing. "He says he wants -- No, I'm not going to tell her that. No!" They sign furiously for a minute.

"What? I'm dying to know!"

She shakes her head, and turns back to me. "He reminded me that he introduced me to my husband, and then asked me to tell you that he's only in town for a couple of days, and he..." She shakes her head.

"What??" I laugh.

"This is so cheesy I can't even believe I'm saying it. He wants you to be there to wake him in the morning with your natural sunlight." He nods, and makes a gesture with his hands to his heart that goes beyond cheesy, but it works for him. I blush.

"Please tell him that was very forward, but very sweet of him, and that I'm seeing someone."

He nods, and waves me forward. He slurs when he speaks, but I can make it out just fine: "Does he treat you right?"

I picture Gary, and it makes me smile. "He does." I give my would-be suitor a kiss on the cheek, and move on.

It's a few hours later when the man himself comes into the Bar. Done with his newscast and wrapping up afterwards, he's here to walk me home. I check in with Jocelyn, who's on until close, then I cash out and we head for the door.

It was raining earlier, so the roads and sidewalks are shiny and a little slick. About halfway home, we turn onto a cross-town side street. Most of the way down the block, I catch some movement out of the corner of my eye, just before I feel my legs come out from under me and I hit the ground. The wind's been knocked out of me, so I lie there unable to call out Gary's name or cry for help.

One of my contact lenses has come out, too. In the barely haloed darkness, there's movement I can't follow, and shouting. When I finally catch my breath enough to right myself, I watch two or three figures run down the street the way we'd come from. Gary kneels down. "Are you all right?"

"I think so," I wheeze. Then I notice the red splattered on his shirt, and I grab his shoulders and start screaming. "Gary! What happened to you?"

He looks down, and then back at me. "It's not my blood." I'm still in hysterics, so he shakes me a little. "Debra! It's not my blood."

Gary lifts me up off the sidewalk, and slowly walks me to the next avenue, where he flags down a cab so we can go home and he can get us cleaned up.

EDIT: We're okay... just shaken up.

"You don't serve mozzarella sticks? What kind of bar doesn't serve mozzarella sticks? I demand to see your license to serve alcohol!"

"I didn't say we don't serve mozzarella sticks, I said we might not have them tonight. I can check if you want."

"What about nachos?"

"We definitely have nachos. Would you like some nachos?"

"I've already had nachos tonight, what are you trying to do to me?"

I take a deep breath. "So, mozzarella sticks, then?"

"Billy?" He turns to the guy next to him. "You'll help me with some mozzarella sticks, right?"

"Frank, you made me eat potato skins with cilantro on them at that last place. These mozzarella sticks had better come with dipping sauce that contains only tomatoes and garlic, and nothing else, or I'm going home to play Jenga with Tabitha."

"Okay, whatever. Where the hell is Scott?"

"Last I saw him he was arguing with a barback about CBGB's."

"This was his idea in the first place, you know?"

I glance down at the other end of the bar, where Kira is hustling to take orders while I wait for these guys. "Hey, fellas, should I put in that order for mozzarella sticks?"

Frank turns back to me. "Yeah, and a couple of beers. Scott can fend for his own damn self."

"Any particular kind of beer?"

Frank scans the taps and the shelf of bottles in a way that makes it pretty obvious he's not actually reading very much. Billy puts a hand on his shoulder and leans toward me. "Do you have Blue Moon?"

"Yes! Blue Moon!" says Frank, and claps his hands.

"Two Blue Moons and an order of mozzarella sticks, coming up."

I stop in at the back room and ask Pat to drop the sticks in the fryer for me, and on my way back I grab the bottles of Blue Moon from the cooler, and pop them on the opener on the back of the bar.

"That's an even twenty, boys."

"For two beers and an appetizer?" Frank sways indignantly as he reaches for his wallet.

I shrug. "Blue Moon's a premium. And we're generous with the mozzarella sticks."

Billy turns to Frank. "Hell, my crappy corn dog a couple of hours ago was six bucks. Nobody said a quest like this would be cheap. But dude, you've had a lot of beer, you can probably switch to the cheap stuff and not even notice."

"No, no, no," Frank replies, handing me $23. "If I drink cheap American beer, the terrorists have won."

"What are you boys questing after?"

"It's not a what, it's a who."

"Okay, whom are you boys questing after?"

Frank takes a drink from his Blue Moon and squints at me. "Are you a Yankees fan?"

"What makes you ask that?"

"The Yankees cap you're wearing."

"No, Sherlock, I mean why do you want to know?"

"Because it would really piss off Sara," Frank says, and Billy laughs, dribbling a little Blue Moon on his shirt, which makes Frank start laughing, too. I use the opportunity to take my leave, and serve some other customers.

A short while later, a third guy approaches them - Scott, I assume - and after they all confer for a minute, they slowly make their way for the exit. I never did learn whom they were questing after, I realize.

I guess I'll never know.

NOTE: I seem to have been just a little too subtle, so I should explain... none of the above actually happened, I made up the whole thing. I just spotted their blog post on Technorati earlier this afternoon and couldn't resist having a little fun with them.

"Hey, honey, what's the difference between ale and lager?" He's a big guy, wearing a Dartmouth ballcap, and accompanied by a couple of friends. They've been sitting at the bar for a little while drinking mid-level American beers, and I get the impression they're genuinely shocked at our beer selection - not just that the Bar itself serves so many different ones, but that so many different ones even exist.

"Um, I can never remember which is which," I reply, "but one is top fermenting and one is bottom fermenting."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that in one of them, the yeast forms a foam on top of the liquid while it's creating the alcohol, and in the other it doesn't."

Simone, who's pouring a few glasses of Chivas nearby, adds, "It's ale that's top-fermenting and lager that's bottom. And they call the liquid 'wort.'"

"Hey, she's pretty good," Big Green says.

"We've all got our strengths," Simone smiles, then points at me. "You should hear this one when she gets going on single malt Scotch." She whips her long, blonde hair back around, and heads back down the bar with the (admittedly pretty good) blended Scotch for her customers.

"Yeah, I'm not much on the fancy stuff," he says. "What about stout?"

"That one I know," I bounce a little. "That's when they roast the malt or the barley before making the beer with it."

"And porter?"

"Same as stout."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean stout and porter mean the same thing - beer made with roasted malt or barley."

One of Big Green's friends, a guy who has clearly shaved his head only to beat his hair to the punch, chimes in. "Why don't they just pick one word and call it that? It's not like they're from different languages, like 'Cava' and 'spumante' both mean sparkling wine."

"I swear I haven't the faintest idea," I shrug. Nice to know at least one of them has some answers as well as questions, though.

"Hey, blondie!" calls out Big Green. Sadly, it being the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend, with the Yankees game already over, the crowd is thin enough that she can hear him pretty well, and has time to bother.

"Call me Simone," she says when she returns to our end.

"Simone, why do stout and porter mean the same thing?"

"Linguistic accident," she says. "Stout used to just mean a very strong beer. But the breweries used the word stout to describe porters so much more often than other beers that they just started using it as a shorthand."

"Well, what about chocolate stout? There isn't really any chocolate in it, is there?"

"No, it's just a stout made with chocolate malt, which also has no chocolate in it. They just roast it at higher temperatures, which caramelizes the malt. I think a couple of microbreweries actually add chocolate, but that's a gimmick."

"Damn, where did you learn all this stuff?"

"I kind of grew up in a brewpub."

"Shit, really? A gorgeous blonde who loves beer and knows everything about it?" Big Green swats Intentionally Bald on the shoulder a few times. "I think I've died and gone to heaven."

"Can't stand the stuff, actually," she tilts her head and grins. "I'm a wine girl, through and through." Big Green is starting to ask her about the difference between Beaujolais and Bordeaux when I head down to the other end of the bar to take some orders.

Vince swings by with some empty glasses, then leans over the bar as I'm pulling a pint of Guinness. "I've been thinking about going back to college."

"That was out of nowhere."

"Yeah, I was just trying it out, seeing how it felt to say it out loud. 'I've been thinking about going back to college.' How do you think your roommate will take it?" Vince and Jill have been dating for several months.

"You haven't told her?"

"Not so much. She's got an MBA, and I've got three years left as an undergrad, assuming anybody would even let me in."

"If you're worried about how you measure up to her, I wouldn't. She could be dating another MBA, but she's dating a barback who used to roadie for punk bands. Why would you suddenly be beneath her if you became a college student?"

"That's not it - well, not quite. I'm a little worried about that, but look at what she does for a living. She could get an offer halfway across the world a year from now, and I'd be stuck going into my junior year."

"You're worried about her moving away a year from now? I didn't know you guys were that serious."

He nods slowly for a moment, looking past me. Then he pulls his shirt up. I've seen him in just pajama bottoms or boxers often enough that I can see he has a new tattoo. It's only a few inches tall, and I have to get pretty close in the Bar's limited lighting, but there's no mistaking it - that's a picture of Jill's face over his heart.

Saturday evening I'm working a double, to help make up for the time I spent away for Jessica's wedding the previous weekend. It's too early in the season for people to be out at the Hamptons, the Yankees are playing their cross-town rivals the Mets in iffy weather, and the Bar is very crowded with fans of both teams, though mostly of the Yankees. Jocelyn is on with me until midnight, and Maya will join us at eight.

A small group of Mets fans arrived early to stake out some stools at the bar, all of which are usually taken up by Yankees fans. One of them is drinking Glenlivet, and when I stop by to ask if he's ready for a refill, he asks me to recommend other good single malts. I quickly launch into my usual "peaty vs. smoky" spiel, pointing out some of the other options we have on the shelf, but when I'm done, he asks, "What's that one in the middle, in the back row?"

I look, and smile when I see the silver bottle. "That's Eddie."

"Eddie's not a single malt Scotch, is he?"

"No, Eddie's the brother of one of the owners."

"The owner keeps his brother's ashes in the bar?"

"Her brother's ashes, and yes, that was Eddie's wish. Some of his ashes here, some in Yankee Stadium."

"The Yankees let people do that?"

"The way I hear it, they actually don't. But Lanie managed to bring them in anyway, and scattered them on the Yankees' dugout during warm-ups."

"So is he there because he was a Scotch fan or something?"

"No, he doesn't stay in one place. Lanie says he was like that when he was alive, too - he'd sit in a different place in the Bar every night. I've never seen anybody move him, but one night he's next to the beer taps, the next, there he is among the Schnapps. Um, Schnappses?"

"Now you're just yanking my chain because I'm a Mets fan."

I smile, and pour him half a finger of Lagavulin. "Give this a try. If you like it, you can pay me for a full one." He thanks me and tosses a couple of singles on the bar for me. As I turn back from the Scotches, I see Gary making his way through the crowd, and I tense up. I've been back for six days and he still hasn't called - and as tempting as it's been to call him myself, he said he would call me, and that's the one time I think it's not unreasonable to expect someone to be the caller and not the callee. But he came into Manhattan on a night he's not working, so the least I can do is listen to what he has to say. After checking with Jocelyn that it's okay, I step out from behind the bar and take him to the back room.

When we emerge ten minutes later, I've made a promise not to blog about what we talked about, but I'm smiling - partly because I'm happy that he came down here to see me, partly because of what he said to me and how it made me feel about him, and partly because I think it's funny that it seems like the back room at the Bar is becoming something of a no-blog zone. I give him my apartment key so that he can go wait for me there, and he gives me a big kiss. Then he's gone.

By the time Maya comes in, the Yankees have mounted a respectable rally to within one run, but it's not enough, and the Mets score a couple more runs to take their second win in the first two games of the three-game series. That's going to stick in a lot of people's craws. But the Mets fan drinking Scotch is gracious about it, as are his friends, and they stick around for a while afterwards.

"How did Eddie die?" he asks after a few more fingers of Lagavulin.

"September 11," I reply. "He was a firefighter."

"And they recovered some of his remains?"

"One of the few."

The Mets fan repeats the story to his friends, then he orders another round for all of them and one for me. In the middle of a noisy, crowded bar, the four of them take off their hats, raise their glasses toward Eddie, and observe a moment of silence.

I'm nervous.

It's Sunday evening, the first time I've been scheduled to work a shift with Todd managing the Bar since the incident at the end of February that upset me so much. As part of the deal we worked out with Lanie and Victor, the owners, there were things Todd had to do before we'd work a shift again, and he's taken care of that obligation. Plus, he apologized to me weeks ago. But I still can't help feeling a little apprehensive; whether it's because I'm afraid of backlash or because I don't want him to resent me, I'm really not sure. Maybe a little of both.

But all things considered, the shift goes pretty smoothly. I'm on with Simone, and Diego is barbacking. The only thing wrong is that none of us wants to be there on such a gorgeous evening - the weather has been spectacular all weekend. Luckily I've managed to take advantage of it, but I still don't want to be inside just yet. Gary and I spent the afternoon in Central Park, just wandering around, taking in the scenery, people-watching, and stopping frequently to partake of food from carts. He didn't drop me off at the Bar until minutes before my shift started, and I can still feel the warmth of the sun on my skin.

Through the front window of the Bar, I can see the colors of the street changing with the progressing sunset, when an attractive, sharply dressed woman in her mid-thirties steps up to the bar. "What can I get you?"

"It's the Lord's day, young lady, nobody should be drinking."

Of all the responses that occur to me in the next few seconds, I settle on, "How about a soft drink, then?"

She smiles. "That would be nice, thank you. I'll have a Coke."

As I serve her, a cheer goes up in the Bar. I turn to the TV just in time to see my boy Jason Giambi hit a third-inning RBI single that puts the Yankees up 3-0 against the Red Sox. "Yes!" I yell, with a fist-pump that seems to alarm my newest customer a little bit. "I'm sorry, I'm just a huge fan of his," I point to the close-up shot of Jason on the screen.

She sips from her Coke, and tilts her head. "You lust after him?"

"What? Well, yes, I guess so. He's attractive. There's nothing wrong with lust. None of us would be here if it weren't for lust."

"Young lady -"

"Please, call me Debra."

"Debra, there is a world of difference between the lust you feel for a married man and the expression of love between a husband and wife that brings a new life into this world."

"I wouldn't know, I've never been married."

"You will be, and then you'll understand."

"I don't know, but I like your confidence."

"It's faith, Debra."

I smile and nod, and go to serve some other folks along the bar. With the top of the third inning over, the Yankees retake the field, with rookie Chase Wright on the mound; and a couple of minutes later, I see my new friend holding her glass out, already empty. I return to refill it.

"Debra, would you please do me a favor, and consider no longer serving alcohol on the Lord's day?"

"Well, it's how I earn my living, and I don't have an awful lot of say in what nights they schedule me to work. I have some seniority, but I prefer to save those requests for special occasions, or holidays with my family. Speaking of which, I'm Jewish, so no offense, but for me, Sunday is just Sunday."

Crack. Manny Ramirez takes Wright deep for a two-out solo homer, and it's 3-1, Yankees.

"I appreciate the respect of your frankness."

I shrug. "I try not to bring up religion with my customers, but if they bring it up first, I see no reason not to be honest."

She smiles. "This is one of the reasons that you will someday know what it feels like to truly share your life with another person."

In light of the sentiment, I let the split infinitive slide. "That's very sweet of you, and once again, I appreciate your confidence."

"Faith, Debra."

"So let's assume for a minute that you're right, and I'm destined to share my life with someone in a state of bliss. How will I know when I've met the right one?"

She rubs the ring on her left hand. "For me, it was an act of faith as much as anything else in my life has been. My husband was sure, and he asked me to let him be sure enough for both of us. I've never looked back, and he's absolutely been my rock."

Crack. J. D. Drew knocks one out of the park, too. 3-2, Yankees.

"What if I'm not willing to take that kind of leap of faith?"

"Well, you may not have to. You may be the one to ask for the leap of faith, not the one to make it. But you should also look for signs, as I do in other parts of my life."

"Signs? Like, fireworks in the sky during a first kiss? A billboard saying 'Marry Bob'?"

She laughs. "Signs are never that obvious, of course. If they were, life wouldn't be very interesting at all. But that doesn't mean the signs aren't there." She downs the rest of her second Coke, and stands up from her stool.

"Would you like another?"

"No, that's all right; I'm actually hoping to visit a few more bars today."

"Do you really believe you're going to get anybody to stop drinking because it's Sunday?"

"If they are able to see the signs," she says. "I have faith."

Crack. Mike Lowell hits a home run. 3-3.

"Well, enjoy the weather. It was a pleasure talking to you, and I hope you come back to see us again."

"Thank you, Debra." She departs into the deepening twilight.

"What was that all about?" asks Simone.

I shake my head. "Oh, nothing. Nice lady, but a little weird."

"Hey, did you see the Red Sox tied it up on three consecutive home runs? That's insane."

Diego, passing by with a case of bottles for the cooler, says, "That's not so insane - really, it happens more than you might think. Now, four home runs in a row, that would be insane - a quarter million games played in the history of major league baseball, and that has happened only four times. Dodgers did it last year, but before that, it hadn't happened since the sixties."

My phone vibrates, and since it's Gary, and things aren't terribly busy, I take it. "Hi, what's up?"

"Hi, Debra, how's your shift going?"

"Not bad, nothing too unusual. Are you okay? You just dropped me off a couple of hours ago."

"Yeah, I just wondered if I could swing by when you're done and take you out to dinner. I've -- I just wanted to say I fancy you and I didn't want to wait another few days to say it."

I smile. "That's really sweet, Gary. Of course you can pick me up when I'm done. I'll see you in a few hours."

I hang up, and make a note to look up exactly what level of emotion "fancy" implies to South African New Zealanders.

Crack. Jason Varitek this time - four batters, four homers. 4-3, Red Sox.

"Insane," says Simone, shaking her head.