Olive Juice

David stared at it for the briefest of moments before realizing what Matteo was doing. He reached up and took Matteo’s hand. He shook it up and down once, twice, three times, his grip firm and warm before he pulled his hand away.

“David,” Matteo said again. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

All the tips, David thought. He probably gets all the tips.

David just nodded.

“Maker’s Mark on the rocks, coming up,” Matteo said before he moved slightly down the bar. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh?” David asked. “I’m sorry. The question?”

Matteo flashed a smile over his shoulder before pulling a glass off the stack in front of him. “What brings you out on a night like this? Seems to me it’d be better to be safe at home.”

“Oh. Yes. Quite. Um. I’m just… meeting. Someone. I’m meeting someone here. We used—we used to come here a lot.”

“Did you?” Matteo asked, picking up the bottle of bourbon. “Funny. I don’t remember seeing you here before.”

“Years ago,” David said, looking down at his hands. He thought to check his phone to see if there were any messages, but it was a habit he’d gotten out of a long time ago. Now, messages would pile up for weeks before he’d remember. People knew to call if it was urgent. Sometimes, he’d forget to answer the phone then too. Besides, the only one who’d message him tonight was Phillip, and it was a quarter till. “You probably were… too young. To work here then.”

Matteo turned back around, setting the bourbon on the napkin. He bit his bottom lip, eyes watching David. “Too young? Why thank you, David. That is very kind of you to say.”

David hadn’t meant it like that. So he said, “Sure,” because he couldn’t think of anything else. He picked up the bourbon and took a sip. It burned, but damn did it burn so good. He hadn’t allowed himself to indulge in a long time. Not since—it was just safer that way. Those months that had followed hadn’t been kind, and he knew just how terrible hangovers could be.

He was older now too. His stomach couldn’t handle that anymore. Where once he’d have been able to bounce back the very next day, ready to go again, now it would probably take the remainder of the weekend to recover.

Besides. He had to drive tonight. Maybe that’s why he’d decided against the Metro, though he couldn’t be sure of the clear thought process in that. Subconsciously, he must have known he’d need to drive home and couldn’t let things go too far. The more he drank, the looser his lips became. He didn’t—he couldn’t run the risk of saying something he’d regret later. Because he’d already had a lifetime of regrets.

Matteo, though. He didn’t look like he had many regrets. The veins on his muscular forearms were pronounced where his shirtsleeves had been rolled up. His fingernails looked perfec

tly manicured, not bitten to the quick like Phillip’s usually were, a habit that no one, not even David, had been able to break.

Not that they needed to be compared. That’s not what David was doing. Or, rather, that wasn’t what he was starting to do. This man—this boy—seemed nice and sweet and he brought David alcohol as it was his job, but that was all it was.

“Must be a good friend,” Matteo said.

“What?” David asked, taking another sip.

Matteo blinked, slow and sure. “Your friend,” he repeated. “Must be a good friend if you’ll come out in this weather.”

“I suppose,” David said. “He’s… Phillip.” Because that made sense in David’s head. In David’s head, the word Phillip meant many, many things: good and kind and sweet and handsome and hurt and pain and that ever-present bittersweet ache that was supposed to show David that he was still alive.

“Phillip,” Matteo said, and for some reason, David didn’t like the sound it made coming from him. It felt wrong somehow. He shook it off. He was being ridiculous. Matteo continued. “I had a friend once. Named Phillip.”

“Is that right?” David asked politely because that’s what people did.

“He was very nice.”

“Must be a Phillip thing.” David took another sip. The burn wasn’t as sharp now. He wished it was.

“A Phillip thing,” Matteo agreed. “Do you want to open a tab?”

“Oh,” David said, fumbling a little as he put the glass down on the tabletop. He started to reach for his wallet. “I’m sorry. Here I am prattling on, and—”

He stopped when he felt a hand on top of his own. He looked up. Those little crinkles in the corners of Matteo’s eyes were back. “Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t trying to—”

“No, no,” David said hastily. “I should have—”

The hand on top of his squeezed.