The Handyman: The Usual

I have one hand on the tap when Luke walks in. He catches me looking and heads for the far end of the bar.

I finish pouring. Set the beer down. Let him get settled before I reach for the bourbon.

He's wearing that expression again. Mouth set, shoulders quiet, something going on behind his eyes that he won't be discussing over lunch. Fine by me. I have enough people telling me their problems. Most of them begin with how much they love their wives and end with asking when I get off.

Luke has never required that much supervision. I slide a menu toward him.

“Eating or brooding?”

“Both.”

“The usual?”

“Sure.”

I turn to put in the order. I can feel him watching me, and I take a little pleasure in giving him a reason. A look over my shoulder. A second longer than I need.

Divorce has improved several things about my life. My willingness to pretend I don't want something is one of them.

I want Luke in the manageable way I want another drink when I'm done working. I can look forward to it without rearranging tomorrow. He comes over. We enjoy ourselves. Nobody stands in the kitchen the next morning holding a coffee mug and trying to determine what happened to the relationship.

When I set down his bourbon, our fingers meet on the glass. Warm skin. Rough hands. He looks at me, and for a second I let myself think about tonight instead of the lunch order.

The collar of his shirt has folded under on one side. I want to straighten it. Let my knuckles brush his throat, leave my hand there long enough for him to understand I haven't been concerned about the shirt.

He's close enough that I can see the stubble along his jaw. I'd like to put my mouth there. Take my time working out what happens next. He has this patient way of watching me that makes it difficult to remember I'm at work.

I keep my fingers on the glass another second. Then I let go, before I decide his collar qualifies as a customer emergency.

Then the door opens.

Two men come in without looking for a table. Young enough to think everyone should notice them. Old enough that I don't have to be nice about it.

The tall one's eyes stop on Luke. I leave the bourbon where it is and move my other hand below the counter.

“Luke Harper.”

Luke turns on the stool. Slowly. I watch the distance between the three of them shrink.

Apparently someone named Javi has sent his regards. His delivery service looks expensive to insure.

The tall one does the talking. Tattoos up his neck, chin lifted. His friend works his way to Luke's left, blocking the space where a sensible person would step away.

Luke takes a drink.

That bothers me more than if he'd stood up. He has time to lift the glass, swallow, set it down. He's already decided what he's going to do, and these two are still arranging themselves.

My fingers close around electrical tape. Customer service. Solid wood. Good reach. A little difficult to explain on a résumé.

“Not in here,” I say.

The tall one doesn't even look at me. He reaches for Luke's collar, and suddenly there's no room to swing without hitting the wrong man.

Luke's elbow drives into him. A knee follows. The stool jumps sideways under the tall one's weight, its legs scraping hard across the floor.

The other man swings. Luke catches his wrist. I hear the shoulder.

My grip tightens. There's a sound a body shouldn't make, followed by a scream loud enough to get everybody's attention, including the people who have been working very hard to keep drinking through this.

Luke pins him against the bar.

I have a bottle within reach. The bat. Several things I could use if this keeps going. It stops.

The tall one is on the floor trying to breathe. His friend has his cheek pressed against a surface I cleaned less than ten minutes ago. Luke speaks to him quietly about Javi and a home visit.

I catch enough to understand the message. So does the man with his arm trapped. He's listening with his whole face.

Luke lets go. The two of them manage the door together. I keep my hand on the bat until they're through it.

Somebody's country song carries on. I release customer service and make sure my fingers aren't shaking before I reach for the bourbon. They aren't. Good.

Luke sits down. I pour him a fresh one. I don't ask whether they're coming back. He wouldn't know, and I don't need a comforting guess.

There's blood on his forearm. A narrow cut, hardly anything compared with what just left through the front door. I look at it anyway.

I've had those hands on me. I know how careful he can be. Watching him make such quick work of two men puts an unpleasant amount of detail into the things I haven't asked about.

I push the glass toward him. His phone buzzes. He checks it, then looks at me.

I pick up the cloth. Wipe a wet ring from the bar. Give him the same privacy I'd give him if nobody had just tried to put him through the furniture.

“Yeah?”

One word. I keep wiping. I can't hear the other end. I can see him listening.

His eyes settle on nothing. His fingers go still beside the glass. Whoever's talking has his attention so completely that I could walk away with the bourbon and I doubt he'd notice.

That's new. He has listened to me. Laughed with me. Looked at me across this bar in ways that made the rest of my shift feel unnecessarily long.

I've never seen him forget where he is.

“Give me an hour,” he says.

He ends the call and leaves a fifty. The food hasn't arrived. I look toward the kitchen, then back at him. He's already moving.

“Luke.”

He stops halfway to the door.

“I'll see you tonight?”

I ask because I would still enjoy it. Because a phone call isn't an explanation. Because I'd prefer an answer from the man himself to a story I make up while polishing glassware.

“We'll see.”

He leaves without looking back.

I stand with the cloth in my hand for a moment. Then I put the displaced stool where it belongs. His bourbon sits untouched beside the fifty. I pick up the money and glance at the door, remembering how quickly he got off that stool when the call ended.

I take his glass away before the food comes.