The Woman at Table Four

The bar isn’t loud, just full. Glass against glass, the shuffle of coats, a burst of laughter that ends too quickly. She sits with one ankle hooked behind the other, elbow resting on the edge of the counter, a half-finished drink sweating quietly beside her.

She isn’t looking for anyone. That’s why they look.

Her eyes move when the door opens—not curious, just taking inventory. The kind of gaze that weighs and files things away for later. A faint, private smile forms as if she’s found the rhythm of the night, not a person.

When the bartender asks if she wants another, she tips the glass once against her thumb, a slow circle, and answers,

“Not yet.”

The pause that follows isn’t empty; it’s charged. The man two stools down straightens his posture without knowing why. The woman behind him stops talking mid-sentence. She simply goes on sitting there, the air readjusting itself around her.

A shadow crosses the edge of the bar. She doesn’t move at first; she can feel the hesitation in it. When she finally turns her head, it’s not a startle—it’s a slow recalibration, like she’s letting the room come back into focus.

“Mind if I—”

He gestures toward the empty stool beside her. She looks at the stool, not him, and then at her glass, as though considering what the stool would cost her.

“You already are,” she says. Not unkind. Just factual.

He laughs, awkwardly. “Fair enough.”

He orders something too sweet for the glass he’s handed, tries again. “You come here often?”

She huffs out a soft laugh. Not a real one—more like the ghost of one. “You could try a bit harder.”

That lands the way she means it to. His shoulders loosen, and he smiles wider, but it’s already clear: he’s on her tempo now. Every word, every pause, has to pass through her rhythm before it lands.

She turns her stool an inch toward him, not enough to close the distance, just enough to mark the experiment.

“So,” she says, voice low, curious. “What are you hoping happens if I say yes?”

He blinks once, caught off guard by the precision of her question. “I—uh—guess I was hoping you’d… say yes?”

She tilts her head, studying him the way someone might study a new scent.

“Hope’s such a fragile currency,” she murmurs. “You sure you can afford to spend it here?”

He laughs, but it cracks at the edges. “That’s—yeah, that’s a line.”

“Mm.” She lets her gaze slide down his glass, the ring of condensation, his restless fingers. Then back to his eyes.

“It wasn’t.”

He swallows. “So… am I losing this conversation?”

That’s when the corner of her mouth lifts. “That depends. Were you trying to win it?”

The silence after is exquisite. He chuckles—quiet, uncertain—and she joins him, soft, almost kind. Her hand traces the rim of her glass once, slow enough that he follows the movement before remembering to breathe.

“You’re dangerous,” he says finally, but he’s smiling.

She shakes her head. “No. Just bored.”

———

He’s been polishing the same glass for at least two minutes, watching her reflection in the mirror behind the bottles.

When the Suit retreats, he slides the glass forward. “Careful,” he says. “That one looked like he had networking in mind.”

She laughs, genuine this time. “I should’ve charged him for the consultation.”

He tilts his head. “You charge by the hour or the sigh?”

That earns him the slow smile. “Depends. Which one do you think costs more?”

He leans an elbow on the bar, no rush. “The sigh. You only give one of those when you’re thinking about leaving.”

She looks up at him then, caught a little off guard by how quiet he made the space between words.

“Maybe I was.”

He sets down the rag, the faintest nod toward the glass.

“Then let me buy you one more minute before you do.”

He doesn’t move closer; that’s the trick.  He stays just far enough away that you'd have to lean a little to hear him.

“You know,” he says, pouring slow, “you don’t strike me as someone who lets people buy her anything.”

 

“I don’t.”

He nods, eyes on the bottle. “That’s what I thought. I’m not people.”

That lands somewhere low in your stomach, a quiet percussion.

She arches a brow. “Dangerous line.”

He smiles—lazy, not cocky. “Only if it’s true.”

For a moment, both listen to the sound of the pour. The faintest slip of amber against glass. He's watching the drink settle, not her. That’s what makes her look up again.

“You’re a strange one,” she murmurs.

He shrugs, slides the glass forward with a fingertip resting just long enough on the rim that their fingers almost touch. “Takes one.”

She don’t finish the drink, instead she lets the ice melt, running one fingertip through the condensation ring on the bar, tracing slow, deliberate circles while watching him rinse another glass.

He doesn’t ask her name, and she likes him better for that.

“Closing time soon,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

“You’ll let someone else walk you out?”

“No.”

He dries his hands, hangs the towel. Everything he does is precise, unhurried, as if the night bends around his rhythm. When he finally looks at her the air between them seems to tighten—like a string drawn but never released.

He gestures toward the glass. “You didn’t like it?”

“Oh, I did,” she says, standing. “Just not enough to stay for another.”

That earns the smallest curve of his mouth. “Then I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She starts to pull out a bill. He puts a hand over it, not touching, but close enough that you feel the warmth of it.

“Don’t,” he says. “You already paid.”

There’s that heartbeat of stillness again—his words slow, soft, almost a whisper but not quite.

She hold his gaze a second too long, the corner of her mouth curling.

“I’ll remember that,” she says.

“I hope you do.”

She turns, smooth, already halfway to the door when you hear him call out—not loudly, just enough for it to reach you:

“Next time,” he says, “you pour.”

She doesn't look back, but the smile that follows her out the door is wicked.

———

His version

She walked in like she already belonged there— not the kind that drags attention, but the kind that bends it, quietly. Every step looked like it had somewhere better to be.

Most people look at the bottles. She looked at the mirror behind them, straight through her own reflection, like she was studying whoever might be standing behind her. He’d seen it before: the scan for exits, not people.

He didn’t ask what she wanted; he just poured something she’d either love or leave. Either way, it’d tell him who she was. When she smiled the first time, it was because she caught herself thinking, not feeling.

That’s what did it. Not the laugh, not the hair falling forward, not the tilt of the wrist—

the moment she almost let herself enjoy something and immediately pulled it back.

The guy in the suit came and went, same as the others. He watched her dismantle him in three sentences flat and never raise her voice. The man left thinking it was his idea.

It never was.

He let her have her silence after that. Didn’t talk, didn’t ask. Just kept polishing glass until she forgot she was being watched. When he finally spoke, she looked at him like he’d interrupted a thought she’d been saving for later. That look went straight through him. He didn’t show it. He’s good at that. Her eyes flicked toward the drink, then back to him.

Every time she blinked, it felt like the room dimmed for half a second. When she stood to leave, he already knew she wouldn’t take the change.

He covered the bill anyway, a quiet refusal in kind.

“Don’t,” he told her. “You already paid.”

She gave him the smallest smile, the kind that’s worth more than a phone number and less than a promise. He watched her reflection in the glass door as she left.

Didn’t say her name because he didn’t need to. He’d remember the shape of her absence easier than a word. And when the door closed, he caught himself whispering:

“Next time, you pour.”

Then he laughed under his breath, because he knew she’d heard him.

He returned his gaze to the bar and found a card there; he hadn't seen her leave it. It didn't have her name on it, not exactly. It had a title:

"Her Majesty of Ink and Exit Wounds"

and an address to her Court. 

She hadn't given him her name, she'd given him an invitation.