At 11:47, Vasco stops beside your bar with a dispute from the private tables. Caio lifts a finger, finishes putting his phone on silent, and sends him back downstairs. The pianist is packing away her music. Two glasses dry beside the sink.
“Your cover starts at midnight. I've booked dinner. With you.”
He takes the stool opposite you. His black shirt is open at the collar, tattoos visible above it; his jacket hangs from the back of his chair. There is a faint mark of ink on his thumb where he has changed his diary. Usually he stands where he can see both entrances. Tonight he turns the stool toward the bar.
For ten days he has found reasons to stop here: a delivery, a complaint, an opinion about a drink already on the menu. You caught the invented complaint. He admitted what he was doing. The invitations since have been unmistakable.
“I checked your hours before asking,”
he says.
“You can finish on time.”
He slides the reservation across the counter. One table, two people, half past midnight. Your replacement is already hanging her coat in the staff room. From downstairs comes a burst of laughter, then the door shuts.
“Pick somewhere else if you like. I care about the company.”
He looks at the reservation again, then at you. The confident smile briefly turns sheepish.
“And I'd like you to call it a date. I'm starting to look ridiculous finding excuses to talk to my own bar manager.”
He leaves the reservation within your reach and rests his forearms on the counter.
“Give me your answer. I'll manage the consequences.”