“You got it,” Britta smiled, as she took the empty Old Fashioned glass, and wiped the condensation from the dark wood bar with a black napkin from the caddy.
“Another for you?” she asked the young man’s companion. It was clearly a first date situation and looked like it was going well.
The girl was still working on a French 75, and though it wasn’t great for her take-home tips, Britta approved of this girl nursing her drink while she was still sizing up this guy.
Britta turned to put the glass in the dish bin, grabbed a cocktail shaker and filled it with ice.
She poured in the Perry’s Tot, Campari and vermouth with muscle memory, and when she grasped for a clean glass, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
With her image set off against the background of the softly glowing bar, with its white tile walls and warm maple plank ceiling,
lit by filament bulbs and white votives in mason jars throughout the room, Britta was amused and pleased at the abrupt turn life had taken in the past couple of months.
She delivered the cocktail, and walked down the bar to uncork a bottle of red for one of the seated tables,
taking the moment as the removed the cork from the corkscrew to pat herself on the back for finally getting out of that bistro from hell where she was waitressing in the spring.
The one where the hostess, Dana, was so awful to customers, that they took it out on the other staff and barely ever tipped properly.
It was definitely just a paycheck, and no one loved working there.
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