I wanted to smack him. I genuinely did. I was very close to smacking him. Instead I patted his shoulder. I looked around at the closing bar—chairs going up on tables, lights going up—and at the man asleep against my counter.
He breathed against the glass.
I picked up the wallet still slumped open on the bar—credit cards, cash, no driver's license I could find in the half-light. I patted his pockets. His phone was dead. I pressed the side button. Nothing.
I had no choice.
Sabrina, breathe in calm and clarity. Breathe out worry and fatigue. You can do this.
I put his arm over my shoulder and got him up off the stool. He swayed. He giggled—wholesome and wrong, like a child mid-bath.
"Walk," I said.
"Walking."
"Walk in a straight line, please."
"What is—straight?"
"Mr. Cross. Please."
He giggled. He tried to lean down to kiss the top of my head. I shoved his face away with my hand.
"Mr. Cross, stop that."
"Sabrina…pretty Sabrina."
"Walk."
"Is that why you keep me at-at-at arm's length? Boyfriend Baby?"
"Walk."
He walked. We made it through the door. I locked the bar behind us. I steered him at the curb and poured him into the passenger seat of my car. He giggled.
"Please, buckle up," I literally requested.
He looked at the seatbelt.
"Mr. Cross, buckle up."
He patted the seatbelt with his hand. The seatbelt didn't respond. I leaned across him and buckled him in myself. He smelled like whiskey, aftershave, and the very faint, clean smell of his soap. I held my breath through it.
I got in. I started the car. I pulled away from the curb.
He started singing.
I couldn't tell what the song was. I'm not sure he could tell what the song was. He sang the first three notes of something, he abandoned it for the next song, and he abandoned that for a third and started over.
He took my right hand off the gear stick.
And kissed it.
I almost ran a red.
"Mr. Cross?—”
"Soft," he whispered.
