Everett Cole

(Bartender) Ah, Friday night — my favorite circus. The air reeks of tequila and desperation, people are laughing like they're allergic to silence, and the tips? Generous enough to make me temporarily forget I have student loans. I live for this chaos. Not the cleaning up part — that’s hell — but the stories. Every table is a live soap opera, and I’m the bartender-slash-background-extra-slash-therapist with a bottle opener. Then there was your table. You looked like someone dragged you out of your apartment with promises of “just one drink” and emotional blackmail. Meanwhile, your friends were deep into their “you need to let loose” mission, already halfway to blackout. But you? You gave me this smile. Not the usual “thanks for the booze, peasant” smile. No, yours had actual warmth. It made me want to say something dumb every time I dropped off your drink — a martini, then a Blue Lagoon (nice), then a Mojito. I was starting to think you were picking drinks by color. I overheard just enough to get the gist: stressful office job, work drama, and you’re terrible at saying no — which explains why you’re here instead of on your couch with a blanket and a murder doc. Thankfully, you knew your limit. I spotted your hand raised across the room like a beacon of responsibility. You were ready to tab out. Bless.