The Commuter

Molly pushed open the heavy wooden door of the dive bar, the familiar creak blending with the faint hum of the 70's and 80's rock coming from the speakers. It smelled of sawdust, peanut shells, and cheap beer - a hole in the wall far away from the relentless demands of the city, away from the deafening emptiness that waited for her in a second floor garden apartment where shit inexplicable went missing.

Sliding onto her usual stool at the bar—second from the left—Molly set her worn leather messenger bag on the weathered wood. Suddenly a long forgotten thought popped into her mind. How did Dad keep the leather always looking brand new when he carried it for years as an English professor? He would be so pissed if he saw the state of his lucky now, she thought.

She scoped out the dimly lit room, as she always did, to see if anyone was there who might want to talk to her. In a corner booth, a handful of college guys sucked down cans of Heinken and worked together to build a pyramid. Couples sat at small round tables, either buttering each other up or quietly arguing. Old men read newspapers or watched a ball game on one of the TV screens. There never was anyone to talk to. It was as if the bar existed for her alone, the random strangers simply blended in with the walls.

Except for him.

The bartender appeared as he faithfully did every Friday. He moved with determination as if the other bartender wasn’t allowed to wait on her. His dark eyes set on her as he set a vodka cranberry in front of her without a word. The perfect pour, every time.

Molly’s lips twitched in a bitter smile. “Thanks,” she said, even though he never responded. She accepted and oddly appreciated his silence.

Today, though, she needed more.

“You won’t believe what happened,” she began, clutching the glass like as if it were a 10 pound barbell. “I went out for my lunch hour. I might have been about fifteen minutes late getting back from Whole Foods because the lady at the register refused to take my cash no matter how much I groveled. All this damn Covid panic just needs to stop. So it took me forever to dig for my nearly tapped out Visa. Finally get back, and everything in my office was gone. Just…vanished. Like some kind of corporate butt rape for me and me alone. No email, no memo, nothing.” She laughed bitterly. “Man, I remember the days when I thought all of that deception was a myth. Work your ass off and they'll know your value, I'd say. What a joke.”

The bartender’s expression didn’t change, but his hands stilled for a fraction of a second as he wiped down the counter. Molly’s sharp eyes caught it, and her curiosity flared.

"Are you ever going to talk to me?" she asked, tilting her head. “You’ve been listening to my bullshit for weeks. I’ve told you more about my life than I’ve told any useless, legal pad thumping shrink. And you just stand there, pouring drinks like some silent sentinel. What’s your story? Do you even have one?”

Still, he said nothing. But this time, there was a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement? Sympathy? It was maddeningly subtle, but it was there.

Molly leaned closer, emboldened by her exhaustion and the vodka warming her veins. “I’m serious. You can’t be a mute. How many mutes are there in the world?” She guzzled the rest of her drink then slid the empty glass towards him. “But I’m sure I would never find you on social media? No way. I bet you’re one of those people who sees everything, hears everything, ever present but so far gone at the same time.”

For a moment, she thought he might have slipped something in her drink. She wasn’t known to be so brazen outside of the office.

He finally moved, flinging his towel over his broad shoulder. Molly thought he might actually say something. Her breath caught as his lips parted…

And then he smiled. A small, knowing smile that made her unconsciously hold her breath for a moment. It wasn’t fair how handsome he was—all dark features and sharp lines softened by that faint curve of his mouth.

“You speak. I knew it,” she breathed, stunned by his expression. “Holy hell, the enigma has a voice.”

“Only when it matters,” he said, sending a shot of subzero temperature breath down her spine.

She blinked, caught off guard. “Okay,” she managed, recovering. “So, does this matter? Are you…finally going to tell me why you haven’t kicked my big mouth and ass out of this place yet?”

His smile faded, replaced by something darker, more serious. “Don’t say that.”

Molly hesitated, suddenly unnerved. The space between them felt heavier, charged with a palpable electricity that never shocked her so deep into her core. Her instincts whispered for her to laugh it off, change the subject, or leave. But there was a concrete monotony she wanted to jackhammer that night.

“Okay. You don’t like self-deprecation. I get it. So tell me what you’re all about then.”

The bartender leaned in closer, and for the first time, Molly noticed how cold the air around him felt, as though the warmth of the bar couldn’t quite reach him. His dark eyes held hers, and she swore she saw shadows swirling within them…