From “Last Call”
NOBODY KNOWS WHY SHE goes by Nebraska. If asked, she laughs and admits the closest she ever got to Nebraska is Iowa. Nobody at the Shady Times Bar knows — except me.
“You want another one of those?” Nebraska looked down the bar at me with the smile that had claimed my heart more than three years ago.
I tipped my club soda at her and a few moments later caught the filled glass as she slid it down the bar. A noisy group jostled through the big swinging front door and made a beeline for the round table on the far end of the dance floor. It was early and the jukebox was still set for Elvis. I was lonesome tonight, but that was the status quo.
A few minutes later the waitress murmured the party’s order, and I watched Nebraska go into action. Her hands caressed the necks of tequila, rum, gin, and vodka bottles, deftly tossing them hand-to-hand. Glass flashed in the light, sparkling like miniature rainbows. Blue, green, and red prisms refracted in the mirror, spilling colors over her white-blond hair. Peach juice splashed color into the mix, followed by deft squirts of cola from the tap. I never could take my eyes off her and tonight was no different.
I watched her fingers nimbly twist lime slices and remembered that night, six months ago, when those fingers had been as deft with parts of my body and leaving me as filled — and mixed up — as the contents of the shakers she lined up across the bar.
One by one she tipped, flipped, and poured the shakers’ contents into the row of tall glasses, and topped off her signature Nebraska tea with a wedge of orange. I could taste it against my lips, the fruit filling my nostrils as the smooth liquor warmed my mouth before sliding seductively down my throat.
I shook my gaze away from her hands on the next batch of drinks. It had been six months since I’d tasted the magic of her mixology. Six months since I’d tasted her lips, too.
