Fridays at the Nightjar feel like watching the same rerun for the hundredth time. I know every crack in the mahogany bar, every smudge on the brass fixtures, even the exact cadence of Joey's laugh when he thinks a customer has said something funny. Predictable. Safe. Mind-numbingly consistent.
"Haven't seen your friends around lately, Ethan," Joey says, wiping down the counter with a rag that's seen better days. He's been tending this bar since I started coming here five years ago, and his mustache hasn't changed once.
I take another sip of my whiskey, feeling the familiar burn. "Most of them have settled down. Few of them even have kids now."
"Family is a wonderful thing," Joey nods sagely, as if he's imparting cosmic wisdom instead of the most generic sentiment possible.
"Yeah," I agree, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. "I'm not in a rush, but I'm looking forward to it someday." The words come out automatically, like I'm reading from a script I've rehearsed my whole life. Thirty is approaching fast, and these conversations have become a monthly ritual.
The door swings open, letting in a gust of autumn air that carries the scent of rain and possibility. I don't turn, new patrons aren't exactly rare, but something shifts in Joey's expression. His eyebrows rise slightly, his professional smile warming a few degrees.
She slides onto the stool beside mine with practiced grace, close enough that I catch a whiff of something exotic, not perfume exactly, more like incense or spice. When I glance over, my rehearsed indifference falters.
Her hair is the color of autumn leaves and blood oranges, cut in a pixie style that frames a heart-shaped face with cheekbones that could cut glass. But it's her crimson eyes that knock the air from my lungs.
"Hey there," she says, her voice smoother than the top-shelf bourbon Joey keeps for special occasions. "You seem nice. Let me buy you a drink."
Joey flashes me a smile that says "don't screw this up, you idiot," and suddenly I'm acutely aware of my rumpled button-down and the stubble I didn't bother to shave this morning.
"Actually, how about I buy you a drink instead?" I counter, finding my voice.
Her smile widens, revealing perfect teeth that somehow look a bit too sharp in the bar's dim lighting. For a split second, I swear her crimson eyes flash brighter.
"I would love that," she purrs, leaning slightly closer.
I glance at Joey, who's watching our exchange with undisguised interest. "One of whatever she'd like," I tell him.
"I'll have whatever Ethan is having," she replies without missing a beat.
My brain stutters. Wait a minute. "Did I…"
"It's on your bag," she interrupts, pointing one slender finger toward my worn laptop bag propped against the barstool. The embroidered "ETHAN SCOTT" from the company welcome package is clearly visible. "I'm observant."
"Ah, of course," I mumble, feeling simultaneously relieved and disappointed. For a wild second, I'd imagined something more... cosmic. "Mystery solved."
"I'm Calista," she says, extending her hand. Her nails are painted a deep burgundy that matches her eyes.
"It's very nice to meet you, Calista," I reply, taking her hand. Her skin is surprisingly cool despite the warmth of the bar.
Joey slides another whiskey across the bar to her, and she raises it in a small toast before taking a delicate sip.
"So, Ethan Scott," she says, rolling my name around her mouth like she's savoring it. "Tell me what brings a man like you to a place like this every Friday night, all alone."
"Every Friday?" I choke, nearly spitting out my drink. "How would you know that?"
She shrugs, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Just making an educated guess. You have that 'end-of-week ritual' look about you."
I study her face, trying to decide if I'm being teased or analyzed. "Fair enough. I guess I've been feeling a bit lonely lately. Most of my friends have moved on to more... domesticated lives."
"Well, fancy that," she murmurs, leaning closer. "Loneliness can be quite the persistent companion, can't it?"
As she shifts, something catches the light beneath her collar, a pendant on a thin silver chain. It's an upside-down cross, the metal looking oddly ancient against her modern attire.
"Is that a St. Peter's cross?" I ask, genuinely curious. "I know most churches dedicated to him use the inverted cross as a symbol."
Her hand flies to the pendant, fingers closing around it protectively. Something I don't quite catch flickers in those crimson eyes.
"No," she says quietly. "Not St. Peter... something else."
"Oh? What is it then?"
Instead of answering, Calista takes another substantial swig of her whiskey, draining half the glass in one go. Then she does something unexpected, places her palm flat against my chest, just over my heart. I can feel the coolness of her skin through my shirt.
"Wouldn't you rather talk about something more interesting?" Her voice drops to a whisper that somehow cuts through the bar's ambient noise.
My pulse quickens beneath her touch. "What, like politics? Do you want to discuss how the world is basically on fire around us, yet I still have to drag myself to work every day like nothing's happening?"
She laughs then. "But wouldn't it be kind of nice," she says, leaning in until I can see flecks of gold in her crimson irises, "if the world really did burn down?"
Her laughter grows louder, wilder, drawing glances from nearby patrons. There's something infectious about it, something that makes me feel like I'm in on a private joke the rest of the world doesn't understand. I find myself laughing too, though I'm not entirely sure why.
"As long as I don't have to go to work, yes," I reply, raising my glass.
She clinks hers against mine, eyes never leaving my face. "Oh, Ethan Scott," she says, my name sounding like an incantation on her lips, "I have a feeling you and I are going to get along splendidly."
And somehow, one drink become three, and the bar's ambient chatter fades into background noise as Calista and I fall into conversation that feels simultaneously dangerous and comfortable. She asks about my job in HR benefits administration, and instead of giving my usual sanitized answers, I find myself confessing how soul-crushing corporate life can be when everything I do is meant to fuck over my coworkers. She nods knowingly, as if she's glimpsed the purgatory I inhabit five days a week.
"The modern workplace is just another form of imprisonment," she says, tracing the rim of her glass with one burgundy fingertip. "We're all just serving different sentences."
Her observations are sharp, cutting through social niceties with surgical precision. When she talks about her own work in "acquisitions" for private collectors, she's deliberately vague, her crimson eyes glinting with secrets she's not quite sharing.
Time slips away from us. Joey keeps the drinks coming, occasionally shooting me looks that range from approval to something that might be concern. The whiskey has mellowed into a warm glow in my chest, and Calista's laugh has become my new favorite sound, slightly too loud, slightly too sharp, and utterly genuine.
The ancient clock above the bar suddenly chimes, marking midnight with twelve sonorous gongs that seem to vibrate through my alcohol-hazed brain.
Calista leans in close, her breath warm against my ear. "How about you and I get out of here?" Her hand rests on my knee, cool through the fabric of my slacks.
The suggestion sends a jolt through me, sobering me up for just a moment. I study her face, the perfect symmetry of her features, the unnatural crimson of her eyes.
"Hey, how old are you, anyway?" I blurt out.
She blinks, then reaches into her purse with a fluid motion, producing a driver's license that she slides across the bar toward me. I squint at it in the dim light:
CALISTA CROWN
DOB: 08/18/2001
"That's so sad," I mumble, the alcohol loosening my tongue.
Her eyebrows draw together. "What? It says I'm twenty-four."
"No, that's good," I clarify, waving my hand in a gesture that feels more expansive than intended. "I'm just saying, if your birthday is in August, you never got to celebrate it during school as a kid. Summer birthdays are tragic."
The tension in her face dissolves into a smile that transforms her features, making her look almost normal for a moment, just a pretty woman in a bar, not the crimson-eyed enigma who's been haunting my thoughts all evening.
"Yeah, it was annoying," she admits, tucking the ID away. "Everyone was always on vacation. No classroom cupcakes for me."
"Poor summer birthday girl," I say, reaching out to pat her hand sympathetically, but my coordination is shot. I miss entirely, my hand landing on the bar with a dull thud.
That's when Calista suddenly springs into action. Her cool fingers wrap around my wrist with surprising strength, tugging me off my stool. I nearly topple over, saved only by her steadying grip.
"Come on," she says, eyes glinting in the dim bar light. "You live close by, don't you?"
My alcohol-soaked brain takes a moment to process her question. The room tilts pleasantly around me, and I realize I've definitely crossed from "pleasantly buzzed" to "drunk enough that tomorrow will hurt."
"Yeah," I manage, fumbling for my wallet. "Just a few blocks."
Joey appears with my tab, a knowing smirk beneath his mustache. "I'll call you a ride," he offers, but Calista waves him off.
"Fresh air will do him good," she insists, already guiding me toward the door. "I'll make sure he gets home safely."