The windows of the bakery across the street reflect the setting sun partway down the alley. The scent of bean-curd pastry travels further. The only other light is the neon word bar quivering as if it’s weary of war against the gloom. I settle on the stool around the corner of the counter, incline against the wall and order. The bartender slides down my whiskey and water and then, in the red light spilling in the open door, she paints her nails in convoluted schemes of blue. I stare into the mirrored Kirin beer ad above her and try to read my silhouette’s intentions.

With a staccato of stiletto heels, a younger woman materializes in the doorway. I say, “You’re carrying too light a load for this sort of place.” The bartender slips the girl a straight-up vodka and replies, “She’s my sister, doesn’t speak much English. She stops by every night on her way downtown. She’s not allowed to drink the real stuff at work.” The girl clicks her glass to mine, rests her hand on my thigh and leans in so close I see my image in her eyes. I shudder and look past her. “Tell your sister that you’re more my type. She’s too young.” Her rat-a-tat shrinks into silence.

I buy the bartender a drink. She pours us both a whiskey. After listening to the hissing of the drunks pissing on the walls outside, I ask, “What time you close?” She pours another round, this time on the house. “Two. I’ll go with you if you’re still here.” When my drink is empty, I tell her to set up another round and drop a coin in the jukebox. She shoves the stools over by the booth, pushes buttons. We dance back and forth along the front of the counter. I watch our reflection in the mirror. The red light plays off the blue of the barrette holding her black hair back from her face, pressed tight to my chest.