not noticing that it’s overflowing.
‘Cause he can’t tear his gaze away,
a slip of wonder in his eyes, cracked with awe,
soaked inoh-fuck-I’m-done.
Then he flinches?—
eyes down,
glass drowning.
Mutters “Shit” as he fumbles for a rag,
wipes it up fast.
When his eyes flick back up, this time,
there’s a laugh under his breath,
a shake of his head,
a blush crawling up his neck.
Ace yanks me back into the song,
and the band leans into our dance.
The two of us belt the next chorus,
then he breaks into a laugh through it,
our bodies knocking the rhythm out of each other, the same way Mom and I used to lose ourselves in the kitchen.
My chest aches from grinning,
and when the horn peaks,
I throw my head back
and let the song take me.
By the time I collapse into my chair,
my chest’s heaving, hair stuck to my lips.
Ace dips low by my chair, elbow on his knee.
“Girl, you forget we got studio in the morning, eh? Tomorrow we grind. Don’t go knockin’ back too many.”
I laugh into my glass, breathless.
“Says the guy who’s on a first-name basis with every bartender from here to Maui.”
He pushes up from the crouch,
arms spread wide with an island smile.
