Page 9 of Upstate

“Try this.” The bartender placed a glass on the counter. A single sphere of ice sat in the center of a honey-colored pool. “It’s a blended copper pot called Writers’ Tears.”

I looked up, amazed. “How did you know I’m a writer?”

“Are you really?” he said. “Truth be told, I chose it for the tears.”

I touched my eyes. They were dry now, had been for hours. How did he know?

Another tap on the counter. “Sláinte.”

The liquor was smoky and spicy and sweet all at once. I let a sip linger on my tongue before swallowing it down. The ingested heat rose from my stomach to the back of my throat. I drank some more and wondered if they sold this stuff by the bottle.

When was the last time I went out to a bar all by myself? A scan of my memory answered: never. I was too exhausted to feel self-conscious, though. I was so tired, in fact, that everything had the hazy blur of a dream. Glass in hand, I got up and wended my way past the tables toward the stage, moving through the crowd impassive as Sylvia Plath beneath her bell jar.

There was a singer at the microphone, her voice a haunting croon. The bandmate beside her backed up her vocals while squeezing a concertina. A bassist whose arms were sleeved in tattoos bounced his knee to the beat the others stomped with their feet. A bearded violinist cradled the instrument against his shoulder tender as the head of a sleeping child. His flame-red hair was pulled back, exposing a gold barbell pierced through his upper ear. His bow arm lifted and dipped as he slid horsehair across strings that whispered and wailed in turn. The hem of his T-shirt lifted, too, the white skin of his belly blinking in and out of view like a message in Morse code.

Feeling invisible, I made no attempt to mask my fascination. I was staring at the violinist when he paused to allow the concertina a solo. He looked out at the audience and our eyes locked—mine red and ringed in purple, I was sure, his blue as a mythical lake where magic swords are hidden. I jolted, shocked to be seen. He startled, too, then lit up as if recognizing a long-lost loved one. I hadn’t been looked at like that since my father’s last glimpse of my face from his hospice bed.

Hearing his cue, the violinist joined back in, eyes still on mine, playing just for me. It was the last song of their set. The singer announced a break. The blare of the band was replaced by a recording of conventional pub tunes. The musicians propped their instruments on variously shaped stands. The violinist stepped from the stage to my side.

“I know it’s an absolute cliché to say this, but I have to ask, have we met before?”

“No,” I said, certain his face was one I’d never forget.

He thoughtfully stroked his beard. “You know what it’s like when you go off to visit a cousin, say, you haven’t seen in a dozen years and you haven’t got a recent photo but when you get off the train and scan the crowd at the station, you spot them right away?” He paused briefly, then barreled ahead, believing his story of far-flung family was so universal it didn’t require a response. “That’s what it felt like, when I saw you there. Like I already knew you.”

“You don’t, though,” I said, wondering whether I was really awake.

“I’ve made a mess of this, haven’t I? Let me try again.” He extended a hand in introduction. “I’m David O’Shea.”

“Audrey,” I heard myself say. “Audrey Beacon.”

His hand was warm, the fingertips callused, the palm slightly sticky. I wondered at the smell of Christmas until I remembered violin rosin comes from pine. Guiding me to a table, he let go of my hand to pull out a chair, then waved at the bartender. Two drinks appeared—a dark glass of Guinness for him, a second pour of Writers’ Tears for me.

“A whiskey girl,” David said, approving of my drink.

In response, I drained the dregs of my watery glass and set it beside the fresh one. David took a drink, too, placing his glass close enough to mine for our knuckles to graze.

“Are you from New York, then, Audrey?”

I shook my head. “I just moved here today.”

“Today!” David lifted his Guinness in a toast, compelling me to clink my glass to his. “To your first night in the city that never sleeps.”

“Never sleeps is right.” Another sip warmed my mouth. “Thanks to you.”

“And what might you be implying by that remark?” he teased.

“I’m subletting an apartment here. Your music is keeping me up.”

“You mean here, in this building?”

“I mean right here.” I pointed to the pressed tin above our heads. “That ceiling is my floor.”

David’s face pulled into a grimace. “Then I’m sorry to tell you, Audrey, we’re booked as the house band four nights a week all summer long.”

“All summer?” I couldn’t keep the dismay out of my voice.

“I can recommend some terrific noise-canceling headphones if you need your sleep for a day job.”