Annie Marhefka
To the bartender who tends to more than just the bar
For Jenn
You think no one notices the way you remember
everyone’s orders, the Corona (no lime) for the guy with
the Zeppelin shirt, the sweet tea vodka iced tea blend
with extra fruit for the girl with the blue earrings, the
cheap wine in the plastic bottles for the woman in the
corner. You think we don’t see the way your silhouette
dips behind the bar, that your voice is drowned out by
the clinking of the bottles and the creaks of the barstools
sliding on old hardwood slats, and the locals trilling
along to “Up on Cripple Creek.”
You think we don’t notice the way you tend to our
secrets, when I told you I was pregnant before I told my
friends, the way you winked and concocted a drink that
looked exactly like my regular drink but wasn’t, for all
those weeks. The way you hugged me when no one was
looking, the way you whispered to me that I would be a
great mom, as if you had sensed my uncertainty.
The way you tend to the band, too, clearing empty
glasses from the ledge near their mic stands, refilling
their water glasses, reminding the patrons between sets
to tip the musicians.
The way you tend to your fellow bartenders, a gentle
hand on the lower back as you scoot behind to clean up a
spill, the way you restock the cooler before it’s empty,
the way you smile.
The way it doesn’t even feel like we’re in a bar, more
like someone’s living room, like there should be a
recliner in the corner and a colorful macrame rug at our
feet. The way you make us forget what we’re escaping from.