At a Bar

I should have kicked him out one hour ago. I sprayed a cloth with cleaning liquid and wiped the bar counter. The smell of detergent mixed with the lingering scent of beer, sweat of a man drinking for three hours after a twelve-hour work shift, and vomit. Why are there no interns at dives? The guy at the bar held a beer glass in both hands. Half full. He tilted it forward, then backward. His body leaned to the side. He grabbed the counter’s edge to keep his balance. I walked closer to him, wiped the counter by his glass.

“Buddy, you know we don’t kick out the regulars.” He looked at me. Lifted the glass up. I wiped the counter under it. “But I can’t close the bar with you inside.”

He nodded and drank a sip of beer. Grabbed the glass in both hands. Looked inside the glass.

“She dumped me,” he whispered.

I dropped the cloth on the counter and leaned forward. “The woman you were here with yesterday?”

He nodded.

“The one that looked like Natalia Oreiro 20 years ago?”

He pressed his palm to his temple and clenched the other hand at his stomach.

I reached under the counter, grabbed a bottle, popped it open, and put it in front of him. “On the house,” I said. The guy moved the beer bottle closer to the glass.

I got out from behind the bar and walked to the tables. The guy took a phone out of his pocket, leaned it against the counter, and tried to type the unlock code. I gathered all the coasters from the tables before he succeeded. He looked at the picture of The Second Natalia Oreiro on his wallpaper. His fingers touched the screen, caressed it. I opened the window. A draft of fresh air filled the basement. I stuck my head out the window and took a deep breath. Fish from the harbor mixed with garbage from the alley. Still better than what’s here.

When I turned around, the guy’s finger hovered over the “call” button. The finger moved closer to the screen, then backed off. I took the stack of coasters and walked to the bar.

He set the phone on the counter and took another sip of beer. He opened the contact list again. Deleted her number.

He put the phone back in his pocket. Stared at the beer bottle. Motionless. The first beer went flat. Unfinished. A train horn blared.

“I missed the first train,” he said.

He grabbed the edge of the counter and stood up. Wobbled back. The bar stool hit the ground.

“Train?” I asked. “Where are you going?”

He retched and covered his mouth with his hand. Fuck. I mopped the floor already. “I couldn’t do it sober.”

He lurched toward the exit. Half walking. Half falling. I walked from behind the counter.

“Wait. Do what?”

I reached for his arm. He stopped. Looked at me. He lunged forward, pitching face-first into my stomach before sliding down my leg to the floor. He passed out.