“Sorry?” A group of four suit-clad lawyer-looking bros at one of the tables had just started arguing about last Sunday’s Chiefs game.
“Far—” he tried again, but another one of the bros shouted, “No fuckin’ way!” at the top of his lungs. Farzan sighed.
“Frank,” he shouted. “Frank Allen. He/him.” It was his default White Person Name.
“Great.” She tapped away again. “I’m Kyra, by the way. Shout if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Kyra.”
She gestured toward the open seat at the bar, and Farzan hopped ontothe high-top stool, though he could already tell it wouldn’t be long before his ass fell asleep. He wasn’t in his twenties anymore. Despite never missing leg (and glutes) day at the gym, his ass was no longer made for sitting on barstools. Hopefully a table would open up soon.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked. She was a short, sepia-skinned woman (she too wore aSHE/HERpin) with her long black hair in a ponytail.
“Ah, glass of rosé?” Farzan asked. “Something you’re excited about right now?”
“I got just the thing.” On the counter behind her stood two glass-fronted wine dispensers filled with their by-the-glass offerings, one white, one red; above that, a ledge with top-shelf whiskeys and gins and vodkas and tequilas. It was a lovely bar, though crowded. While the bartender poured his rosé, Farzan scanned the restaurant. It was hopping, servers coming and going, topping up wine or dropping off beautiful square bowls of french fries. Farzan’s mouth watered.
Wine and fries really was the ultimate heartbreak food.
Farzan raised his hand to try to flag down the bartender to put in an order (he could always take the bowl with him once he got a table, right?), but she still had her back turned, fiddling with the wine dispenser. And right next to her—
Farzan had to blink a few times, and then quickly duck his head before he got caught looking, becauseholy shit. In his panic, he’d gripped his water glass, smearing condensation all along his palms; he wiped them off on his jeans and risked another sly glance.
Ho. Ly. Shit.
Farzan had really liked Cliff. He’d been funny, a little self-deprecating, and really attractive: white, a bit taller than Farzan, with a dimple in his chin and one of those forehead veins that made a face interesting. He’d gone mostly gray, but the silvery kind that looked sexy.
But fuck Cliff. In fact, Farzan could barely remember why he’d found him hot in the first place.
Because the guy at the end of the bar had to be the most beautiful manFarzan had ever seen. Dark, cool black skin that glowed where the lights hit his cheekbones; the most stunning pair of midnight-brown eyes, big and perfectly shaped, beneath thick eyebrows, one of which had a sharp slit on the outer edge; his lips were framed by a nicely trimmed goatee, and his hair, black with a few grays, was in short twists. And his suit: blue with lilac plaid, impeccably tailored to show off his lovely shoulders. Farzan tried to get a better look—a suit like that had to show off the guy’s ass too—but the bar was in the way, digging into Farzan’s ribs.
And then the guy turned, and fuck fuck fuck, did they just make eye contact? Farzan quickly straightened, looked back down at his hands, but sweet mother of crap.
Cliff who?
Farzan glanced up again, just in time to see what might’ve been a smirk. A smirk! Lips that perfect probablyshouldbe smirking. Full and oh-so-soft-looking. But maybe he’d imagined it. He was working, talking to his colleague. Farzan shouldn’t read into it. But at least he could look.
Surreptitiously.
Don’t be suspicious, Farzan repeated in his head.Don’t be suspicious.Except he started humming the song fromParks and Rec, remembering the funeral scene, which made him chuckle, which definitely was suspicious, and fuck, the guy for sure caught Farzan’s eyes before disappearing back into the kitchen.
Farzan was saved by the arrival of his glass of rosé, its sides already turning dewy with condensation. It was a light coral color, and Farzan could smell apple and apricot and strawberry as she placed it in front of him.
“Try this,” the bartender said. “Gramercy Cellars Olsen Vineyard.”
Farzan swirled his glass and inhaled and—fuck, it smelled amazing. Slate and, weirdly, a hint of cheese? But when he tasted, the finish lasted forever.
“Good, right?”
Farzan nodded. Itwasgood. Nearly good enough to forget about thebeautiful man he’d just seen, but not quite—he risked another glance. Still gone.
“It’s amazing. It’s got a little something…” Farzan rubbed his fingers together.
“Parmesan rind?” the bartender asked.
“That’s it!”
She grinned. “It’s from the Cinsault. This blend has a lot of it.”
