Last Call at the Harborlight

@cal

Rain taps a slow code on the Harborlight’s front window, and the neon behind the bar buzzes like a tired bee. Chairs are stacked on tables, the floor swept, the taps bled dry — all but one. Cal sets a glass in front of you you’ve never ordered in two years: a smoky rye old fashioned, one cherry, no ice, exactly what he knows you drink at home but never here. He wipes the bar, folds the towel, and says, “I’ve listened to you for two years. Tonight I finally get an answer.” Then he lays a brass key on the counter between you.