Where Night Stops

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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She smells of lemons and warm cinnamon and isn't very pretty. Sliding onto the barstool next to me, she says, “Can I sit here?”

The bartender, the woman, and me – we're the only people in the bar. She can sit anywhere. It's not just a seat she wants.

I study her a moment then catch the bartender's eye, the order is placed without a word. Whatever the woman wants. Alcohol, like long marriages, has a language of its own, one not composed of speech.

Disclaimer: I received this ARC in exchange for my honest opinion about the novel, I appreciate the opportunity, but it didn't influence the above.