With a single nod of my head, the bartender reaches for the bottle of gin. The crowd has steadily increased in the­ forty-five minutes I’ve occupied this barstool, and I’m thankful the place was relatively empty when I arrived. These old wood floors really sell the honky-​­tonk vibe, but they practically attacked me the second I walked into the room. I nearly took out a waiter and his tray of drinks, along with a couple of patrons whose only mistake was being too close to me when my ­three-​­inch heel got stuck between two boards. There are a few things I’ll miss from my time here, but these shoes aren’t one of them.

The second Negroni of the night appears in front of me. “Wanna order food?”

Glancing at the bartender’s name tag, I say, “No thanks, Ray. Just drinking tonight.”

He moves to the cooler and pulls out two Ultras for the girl who has wedged herself between my seat and the one next to me while I brace myself for that first sip. I get a thimbleful down without cringing. An improvement.

“You sure I’m making it right?”

I have Ray’s full attention, the two beers forgotten in his hand. Maybe I wasn’t as composed as I thought I was.

When I ordered my first cocktail, he was surprised by my choice. This crowd looks like they lean more toward well drinks and shots when ordering hard liquor.

“Yes, it’s just right.” And it’s made exactly the way it should be. It’s not his fault I hate gin. I lift the glass and take a healthy swig, praying I don’t have to wobble my way to the ladies’ room to throw it back up.

He seems satisfied and turns his attention back to the girl, exchanging the two bottles for some crumpled bills.

Tapping my phone screen, I see it’s only been seven minutes since the last time I checked. I need to stay at least another hour. If only I could stir my drink in the same way I would push unwanted food around my plate so I could spare Ray’s feelings.