Pink Gin

and returning to life

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This piece is from my collection that I call “Conversations” each of which is set in a different decade. You can find another “Conversations” piece in last July’s Food & Fodder as well as in last December’s Food & Fodder.

Conversations in a Pub: September 2022

“ID?”

She fished her wallet out of her jacket pocket. The tops of her cheeks tinged pink, and she looked down as her fingers stuck in the wallet window.

“Have a nice evening.”

“Thanks,” she barely said. The interaction repeated behind her as the big-armed bouncer checked his ID.

She brushed her hair behind her ear for something to do.

“Have a nice evening.”

“Cheers.” He stepped past her into the bar. His coat stretched over his shoulders, the grey wool straining as he stuffed his hands further in his pockets. He stood back on his feet, keeping them in front of him, his head held back on his neck, but his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Her feet didn’t stick to the floor as she walked in, like she knew they should’ve. Fewer feet and more mops had passed the floors over the last two years.

The light was dimmed, like the end of sunset perpetuated over the glossy bar, wiped smooth by elbows and rags and the bottoms of glasses.

An anxious hum filled her ears, like lazy bees, the too-low music and the too-loud voices coexisting in disharmony in the too-small space. Her fingers stretched out for the back of the wool coat in front of her, her nails brushing it keeping it in reach like a life raft.

He turned back to her and his lips were full of mirth though his eyes were full of anxiety. That wiry tension.

“What do you want?”

Her eyes scanned the chalk boards above the bar full of scribbling writing and scratched-out offerings.

“I—”

His eyes flicked over to her and back to the bar. The tops of his cheekbones were pink.

Her eyes caught a poorly-drawn martini glass on the board next to an offering.

“What’s a—”

“What?” he asked.

She raised her voice. “What’s a pink gin?”

His cheeks grew pinker with relief. “I don’t know.”

“Should I find out?”

He grinned as he raised his eyebrows and nodded at the bartender.

“A stout and a pink gin.” he said. “Please.”

The wool stretched over his shoulders as he reached for the glasses.

The froth stuck to his fingers as he wiped the side of the glass with his hand. He picked up the drinks.

“Thanks for being here.” He handed her her drink.

She took it and smiled a little downward.

He stretched out his hand suddenly and smoothly and touched the end of her nose. The tension in his face dropped as she dropped her face. Like he was relieved he’d done it. Her cheeks were even pinker, adding to the sunset of the bar.

She took a sip.

“How is it?”

She stared at the glass and her cheeks stretched as her tongue moved in her mouth.

“It tastes like a peppery flower.”

He laughed and put his arm around her shoulder.

“How long’s it been since you’ve done this?”

He shrugged. “This is my place now. About once a week.”

“I haven’t done this since March.”

“So a couple months?”

“March of 2020.”

He laughed again and tightened his arm on her shoulder.

“My mom says the only good thing that came out of COVID is margaritas-to-go.”