A couple of days of clear skies was all it took for our old neighborhood to start looking alive again. Cafés dragged their scuffed chairs out onto the sidewalks. Grandmas gossiped on balconies. Kids ran through the streets laughing. It felt like nothing bad had ever happened here at all, as if all the fear, the worry, the tension had vanished.
I had no idea how to feel about it, because despite all the warmth and the brightness, the danger hanging over our neighborhood hadn't gone anywhere. It just seemed that we were all pretending.
Still, that atmosphere seeped into me too, quietly shifting my mood. Probably because of that, I started feeling a little more optimistic and kept coming to work earlier than usual. It even began to feel normal.
But he hadn't shown up for several evenings now.
Logic said I should stop expecting him. My body disagreed. Every time the bell over the bar door jingled, something inside me flinched, then rose, then inevitably sank.
Yet a small, stupid part of me still believed that maybe we would fall into each other's lives again.
I unlocked the bar, slipped behind the counter, put on my fox mask, and started prepping early.
I checked that we had enough ice and polished the glasses that hadn't been done the day before. My hands moved separately from my mind, because my head was full of thoughts about him. Stupid, useless, painfully pathetic thoughts. I can't get out of my head what he said about wanting to see me without the mask. The way he had sat there, looking at me. How I'd caught my own reflection in his eyes.
Idiot, I thought, slicing lemon after lemon.
And the worst, most pathetic part of it was that I'd somehow turned into Pavlov's dog. You know, the one that started salivating the second it smelled food, or something like that, I didn't really remember.
Either way, that was me now. I couldn't help it. Every time the doorbell rang, my head snapped in that direction on pure instinct. It was insane. Embarrassingly stupid. I'd promised myself last time that I wouldn't do this anymore. And yet, there I was again, staring at the door only for it not to be him.
After a while, I finally got my reaction under control. My heart stopped jerking every time the bell rang, and I went back into bartender mode.
Around the middle of my shift, the door slammed open so hard it made me jump.
Kazuo burst through the door, his long brown apron flaring behind him, his both hands were full of crumpled flyers.
"You've gotta be kidding me," he muttered.
I raised a brow. "For real? Aren't they getting tired of this shit?"
"They're getting braver," he said. "Putting them up during the day now. Right on our door. I nearly grabbed one of those bastards by the sleeve." His jaw was clenched. "I swear, they're no longer restraining themselves."
He was still speaking in a fairly calm voice, but something dangerous flickered in his eyes.
I looked at the pile. "Do you think that the fact that they are plastering this stuff all over our bar is some kind of message?"
Kazuo scratched behind his ear and let out a breath. "Who knows. I hope not. I think they're too stupid for that. They probably just found another empty wall to slap this crap onto."
I nudged the trash can with my foot, kicking the lid open for him. "One day you're going to snap at one of them and get yourself into serious trouble."
"Relax," he said. "I'm a peaceful man. And the last thing you need to do is worry about me."
I just sighed.
We didn't talk about it after that. We had done this routine too many times already. Kazuo kept pretending it meant nothing. I kept pretending I believed him. Nevertheless, something was changing, and not for the better.
Hmm, if I think about it and paired with my obsession over that damn doorbell, every day started to feel like a loop, where I was stuck reliving the same moment over and over again.
Customers drifted in one after another as night settled deeper outside. At some point, the keg sputtered dry, the tap giving that hollow cough that meant I had to haul a new one from the back.
I slipped through the swinging door, grabbed a fresh keg, braced my weight under it, and staggered back toward the bar.
The second I stepped out, I almost dropped the damn thing.
He was sitting at the counter.
He didn't look surprised by my appearance at all, just watched me with that seemingly uninterested gaze.
I managed to set the keg down without breaking my toes and forced myself to look at him.
"Good evening," I said, trying to sound normal.
"It is," he replied calmly. Then, with a tilt of his head: "Will you delight me with something interesting tonight, bartender?"
My pulse stuttered. "Of course. What kind of mood are you in?"
"Uncertain." He rested his forearm on the counter. "What would you suggest to remedy that?"
God help me.
I reached for gin, vermouth, bitters, building something cleaner, stronger than last time. Something with a little courage in it.
When I slid the glass to him, he took it between long, elegant fingers and tasted it, not taking his eyes off me.
"Better," he murmured. "Quite better."
Heat crawled up my neck. I pretended to wipe a nonexistent spot on the counter just to ground myself.
He didn't look away.
Eventually, I felt the weight of his stare so sharply I had to say something. "You're… looking at me pretty closely," I managed. "Do you want to ask something?"
The truth was, customers stared at bartenders all the time. When you're behind the counter, people don't have much else to look at. But his gaze wasn't casual. The sense of being examined, piece by piece, pulled a ripple of shivers across my skin.
He tapped the rim of his glass lightly. "Your mask. It has been… on my mind."
"We talked about this last time," I reminded him softly. "It's just part of the place."
"Yes," he said, eyes flicking toward where Kazuo was wiping down a shelf, mask hanging uselessly at his hip. "However, some of your colleagues seem to treat it as decoration rather than attire. You could do the same. I might even be granted a glimpse of your face."
I exhaled slowly. "Everyone chooses how they wear theirs. This is how I prefer it. If you want to see my face…" I hesitated, then added, "Maybe come by more often. Trust takes time."
His brows lifted. "More often? And should I assume it would be worth the effort?"
"That depends," I said, folding a towel. "On whether you think it might be."
He didn't answer right away. Instead, his gaze dipped to the tie at the back of my head, where my white hair gathered into a small knot.
"You have quite a tail," he said quietly.
"My… hair?" I touched the knot without meaning to.
"Yes," he said. "Does it not get in your way?"
"No. It's part of the look." I glanced toward Kazuo, who was absentmindedly fluffing his arm fur. "People here appreciate hair."
He followed my gaze and gave a small laugh. "You seem to think that I am judging you. I'm not. I merely find myself… uncertain what one should say in such circumstances. So I settle for honest questions."
"Well," I said, shaking a bit of ice into a tin, "if you're worried a loose strand might fall into your drink, I promise that won't happen."
"That is not my concern," he murmured.
He took another slow sip, keeping his eyes on me. Then, suddenly: "Why this drink, specifically?"
"You told me you were uncertain," I said, after a little thought. "Sometimes uncertainty isn't about not knowing what you want. Sometimes it's about not daring to choose."
His expression flickered. "And this is meant to help me choose?"
"It might," I said quietly. "Or at least make the moment harder to avoid."
He considered that, then tipped the glass back and finished it in one clean motion. A hint of something crossed his face before he reached into the pocket of his jacket, placed some bills on the counter, and rose.
"Well then," he said, smoothing his sleeves with precise elegance, "that will do for tonight."
He paused, meeting my eyes again.
"Until next time… bartender."
Before I could say something, he was already striding toward the door.
The moment he was gone, it was like someone let gravity back into the room.
I drew in a breath and braced both hands on the counter, waiting for my heartbeat to stop hammering against my ribs. I felt dizzy, lit up, and wrung out at the same time. Kazuo called something from the back, probably asking about restocking sugar, but it took me a whole minute to form an answer.
Luckily, work helped. Staying busy was a blessing, especially when I was overwhelmed with thoughts and emotions.
I wiped down the bar, served drinks, mixed whatever people asked for, nodding along to strange bits of small talk. By the time the last customer stumbled out, I was so tired I could barely move my feet.
Kazuo hummed while tallying up the till. I gathered the last glasses the customers had left behind, straightened up, and looked around the empty bar.
The doors were locked, the chairs stacked; there was no one left but us. Everything looked the same as always, yet it didn't. The familiar sight suddenly became painfully lonely. As if, despite all the noise earlier, my exhaustion, and everything that had happened today, something was missing.
Some important detail I couldn't name.
I grabbed my bag, said goodbye to Kazuo, then stepped outside. The air was heavy, damp with moisture. I breathed it in and followed my usual route home.
Even though we had seen each other today, even though our conversation had lasted a little longer than last time, the fact that I had no idea when he would come back gave me a sense of discomfort.
"He'll come back. He definitely will," I muttered, pulling my hoodie tighter and walking on.