"What can I get you, kid?" a voice asks. I look up. The bartender stands in front of me with a bar towel draped over his shoulder. He's tall and built like a linebacker, probably early forties, with steel-grey eyes and brown hair clipped close on the sides, leaving tight curls at the top, gathered into a man bun.
"You want something to eat?" he asks, sliding a one-page menu in front of me.
"No," I clip. "Macallan Twelve. Double. Neat."
"It's five o'clock somewhere," the bartender shrugs, pouring a slow ribbon of amber into a heavy glass. I tip my head back and drain it. The burn is immediate. I hold the rim to my lips a second longer, savoring the edge with a grimace, then set the glass down and tap the bar.
"Again."
The bartender raises an eyebrow but continues to pour. He leans on the bar, bottle still in hand, and asks, "You're one of those hockey players from the game last night?"
"Guilty." I shoot back the next drink, this one going a little slower. I set the glass down and take a breath.
"Troubles?" he asks, as typical bartenders are wont to do.
"Yeah," I reply, swallowing hard and letting it spill. "I opened my marriage. My wife didn't want to, and we haven't spoken in months. I feel… guilty, ashamed. And now there's this clingy other woman. She won't leave me alone. She's the temptation that made me want to do this. I thought I needed it… you know, living a little, with hookups and one-night stands. But it hasn't turned out like I thought it would. Women… they want material things, drinks, dinner. It's always more, more, more, and it's exhausting.
"Ahhh," the bartender nods, refilling my glass when I tap the bar top. "Sounds like you got a bad flare-up of thegrass-isn't-greenersyndrome—or, in your case, kid, maybe the ice didn't turn out better."He laughs at his lame joke. "And trust me, I've seen a few lawns in my day… and even more ice rinks."
"What do you mean?" I blink, taking a sip of my drink.
He sets the bottle down. "I was married once. The divorce was finalized a couple of months ago. Beautiful woman, a little older than me. We were together twenty years, and she looked just as stunning the day the divorce was signed as she did the day we said our vows. She was my person, and we still loved each other."
"I don't understand. What happened?"
"Giselle became afflicted with the same condition as you. The grass looked greener elsewhere." He leans in, voice low, confiding. "She got breast cancer a few years ago and fought hard, lost a breast, but came out on the other side stronger than ever. Still beautiful. Had reconstruction surgery. Developed a new lease on life and wanted to see the world. I own this bar, and she workshard as an executive. We could afford it, so we went traveling. Laughed, loved, life was good.
"Then one day she came to me. Said she felt like she was missing out on something. Admitted she'd had a crush on a co-worker for years and never acted on it. But he was leaving the company, and she wanted my permission to sleep with him for one night."
I stare at him, stunned at what he's confiding to me.
"I refused," he continues. "She told me that my saying no was just proof of my toxic masculinity and controlling traits. Her sister blew up my phone the next day, yelling that I didn't understand what my wife had gone through. According to her, Giselle needed to explore her sexuality to rebuild herself."
I swallow hard, staring at my empty glass. A part of me wonders if the bartender is being this blunt and open because he commiserates with Melly.
"Later that same day, my wife came back and apologizedfor asking permission.Said it put too much pressure on me. That it was her body and her choice, so she told me she was going to sleep with him anyway. The day after, she'd come home to me and our everyday life and put it all behind us.
He sighs, shaking his head. "I told her it was a hard no." His eyes glisten with pain.
My mind drifts for a moment to Melly. Realization hits me. All those months, I pushed her for an open marriage. It had to happen because I was already cheating with Mandy. If I had permission, it wouldn’t matter that I'd already started.
Right?
His next words catch my attention.
"There are some things you just can't forgive, you know?" he says, turning his back to me and scrubbing at his eyes. "It's not about pride when you love someone, it's about respect."
He faces me again, red-rimmed eyes gleam with accusation. "We teach people how to treat us by our reactions. Giselle ignored my boundaries, dismissed my feelings, and made her priorities about her desires crystal clear through her actions. Sure, she asked first, but when I said no, that should've been the end of it. It wasn't. She thought she could call my bluff.
If our relationship was so one-sided that she felt she had the power to do that, what would she do next? I had to make it clear she couldn't treat me that way and get away with it. My next relationship? She'll know my hard lines. I love hard, but I demand respect even harder."
"What did she do?"
"She refused to talk about it anymore. At that point, I was beaten down. I just kept asking her not to do it. What else could I do? Chain her to the bed?"
He fidgets with the towel, wiping the already clean bar top. Pausing, he locks eyes with me and continues. "The entire office was meeting after work at a nearby bar. I waited outside in my car, across the street. I had to get a look at this man who was so special she'd risk her marriage for the chance to be with him."
"Did you confront him?"
