Sweet Girl Read Online Free

unfamiliar with any of the names on the bottles. I look down at the acrylic nails she’s tapping nervously on the menu in front of her. Even upside down, I can read the tattoo on her left wrist: To Thy Own Self Be True.
    The tattoo is fairly new; it stands out against the worn-out, sun-damaged skin of her forearm. I’d wager my Prius that this is the big vacation to find herself after finalizing her divorce paperwork.
    She got herself a new tattoo, a too-tight wardrobe from the Victoria’s Secret catalog, and a new hairstyle because she thought they’d make her into a new person. And while her friend should have warned her off a bob, because she really doesn’t have the bone structure to pull it off, I still empathize with this person. I’m shocked to find some common ground with a woman who’s wearing an unironic asymmetrical hem. But I do. I recognize the desire to chop off your hair or to carry around a reminder on your skin. I know what it feels like to want to change every single thing that made you who you were, as if becoming someone new might give you power over the mistakes you made.
    But even as I empathize, I hate recognizing any part of myself in someone so clearly lost, because, well, what does that say about me? I grow more irritated.
    She opens her mouth to ask for another drink and then snaps it closed. I see her glance nervously at the exit and then back at her friend, and suddenly I feel . . . not bad for her, but at least embarrassed that she’s gotten herself into this position.
    “Look.” I glare at her. “I’ll make something for you guys. What kind of liquor do you want as a base?”
    They exchange a glance, each willing the other to answer. Finally Asymmetrical Skirt speaks up.
    “Gin?”
    “OK,” I say, grabbing some of my tools. “Do you like savory or sweet?”
    “Sweet,” they answer in unison.
    “Berry or citrus?” I ask, pulling together more ingredients.
    “Either. Why don’t you choose whatever is best?” she answers.
    She’s learning.
    I muddle together strawberries and a little jalapeño in the bottom of my shaker. I add in a splash of citrus-infused simple syrup and then the gin. It’s uncomplicated, but when you’re using in-season farmers’ market produce, you don’t want to cover it up with too many other flavors. Everything gets a tumble with the ice until the outside of the stainless-steel shaker fogs up with condensation, a sign of the perfect temperature. I’m sure they’d be more comfortable with a martini glass, or even a plastic tumbler for that matter, but I don’t give them one. To a mixologist, a real one, glassware is sacrosanct. The shape and size of the vessel are chosen based on what will best display both the look and the taste of the cocktail. I strain the drinks into two lowball glasses filled with our giant spherical ice cubes. Customers think the ice is so elegant, but they don’t realize it takes up more than half of the space in the glass. It’s management’s way of tricking people into buying more of these overpriced drinks, so I compensate by adding extra alcohol into the mix. I garnish each glass with some cilantro just to throw them off and slide the drinks across the bar. They both take a tentative sip, and grins light up their faces. I’m already printing out the bill and sliding it next to their cocktail napkins.
    When I pass by again half an hour later, the divorcées are getting up to leave—to find a two-for-one happy hour somewhere that’s more their speed, I’m sure.
    “Thanks so, so much.” One of them waves the bill and a handful of cash at me.
    I take them from the woman, and her friend calls over the music, “You keep the change. We really appreciate your help!”
    I look down at the two twenties in my hand. I’m not rude enough to say something ungrateful, even if any other bartender here would be offended by the two-dollar tip they each left.
    “Thanks,” I grumble, and head off to my next customer.

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