I fell in love with the barman once.

I fell in love with the barman once. It was past a long summer, and into the autumn chill. It was during the phase of my life where eternity was suspended on the fronds of smoke that swirled in the club, shifting rhythmically to the thud of the music, illuminated by piercing and pulsating strobes.

I fell in love with the barman once. It was in the depths of a room so black we had to learn to navigate our way around by memory. If the strobe fell we were plunged into velvet black, the breath of the people next to us so close and so sticky, our sweat intermingling. We grew to know and love those we saw frequently. And Jon was no exception.

I fell in love with the barman once. Except he wasn't at working when it happened. I think it was over a mushroom burger at Ba Pita on Rockey Street. I don't know if he wowed me with his love of a good book. Or because of the fact that he had loved our Mix since the beginning of time.

I fell in love with the barman once. Our Mix gave us full permission. I still remember his whorl-less fingers, his baby smooth feet, the smell of his hair gel on his temples, the blackness of his hair, the milkiness of his perfect skin and how when I was wearing heels, his face only came up to my chest.

I fell in love with the barman once. I would sit on his bar, listen for the last song, ride home with him in a taxi, and fall into bed. I fell in love with the white socks almost up to his knees. His black shoes. His hand curled around a cigarette. I didn't fall in love with him per se. I fell in love with how he loved our Mix. I fell in love with how Mix gave him to me.