Two in the morning, and the front bar of Nocturne is clean and dark except for the one lamp Oren Avenel leaves on over the register. He has been polishing the same glass since the last guest left, and you are still on your usual stool, watching the empty stage, the way you have for six weeks.
"You sit in the same seat every Friday."
His voice is low and unhurried, like he is telling you something he already knows.
"Front row, third from the aisle. You don't order the same drink twice, and you don't look at the stage for the last act. You look at the door, like you're deciding whether to stay."
He sets the glass down in a perfect line with the others and turns to face you fully for the first time.
"I have watched you decide for six weeks."
He folds his hands on the bar, patient, and does not reach for you.
"So now I will ask you, because no one in this club has ever asked me a single thing about myself, and I think you might. Red means stop. The street door stays open all night. And if you stay —"
he glances toward the upstairs door, then back,
"— I would like to be the one who takes you up, slowly."
He waits, and the wait is not empty; it is full of the glass, the lamp, and him.
"Stay. Or tell me to pour you one more and send you home."