Page 64 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Consistent.”

“Tragic.”

“Disciplined.”

“Devastating.”

This time, his smile lingers.

“You don’t like disciplined?” he asks.

My brain fully abandons me.

Oliver slams the towel down on the bar. “No.”

I turn my head slowly. “Oliver.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’m having a conversation.”

“You’re having it wrong.”

The man has gone still, but his eyes are curious.

I lean back in my stool. “I like discipline in baking,” I say.

The man watches me for a beat, and then nods. “Good clarification.”

“I thought so.”

Oliver looks between us. “I need to close early.”

“Why?” I ask.

“So I can burn it down.”

“You just said we can’t discuss felonies over the phone.”

“This is in person.”

The men at the dartboard leave twenty minutes later, their argument done. Oliver locks the door behind them and flips the sign to closed, then turns back to the bar with the expression of a man preparing to survive a natural disaster.

I should leave.

I need to leave.

My apartment above the bar is forty steps away through the alley and up the narrow stairs. There is a mattress waiting for me, a screaming shower, and a disgusting squirrel dismantling something important on the fire escape.

I have work in the morning. Early in the morning.

Muffins to make, and a life to keep rebuilding.

But instead, I stay on the stool while the man finishes a second black coffee that Oliver made with visible resentment.

“You know,” I say. “Coffee this late is suspicious.”

He looks at the mug. “I sleep when I decide to.”