His Foppish Outfit

The Barkeep leaves The Patron to his reading and returns to her trusty shaker. She pulls a bottle of bourbon, a bottle of Jager, some Montenegro, and two different bitters (orange and black walnut) off the shelf without a second thought.

Her gaze drifts back to him for a second—the outfit’s loud, but he wears it well enough; a relaxed, almost cocky mix: the denim pants say casual, but the patterned button-down shouts otherwise. She’s seen the type before.

The Barkeep returns with the drink, she sets it in front of him with a slight smile. “Black Manhattan. With my favourite amaro, split with jager. Didn’t want to bore you.” He takes a long sip, savouring the taste. “You’ve got an eye for detail.” He doesn’t look up, just stares down at the glass. “I respect a pro.”

She smirks, shrugging. “Used to study art. Lost the faith, found this.” She stops there, but something in the way he raises the glass makes her go on. “I don’t usually share this stuff with patrons, but my birthday is coming and I’d like to…”