Sandra Mayfield

As if she’s known you forever, the bartender grabs your hand, “Not you, darling! You’re all mine tonight. This unregistered doctor’s orders.” She lets go to finish cleaning tumbler glasses, her eyes never leaving yours. She lets you sit there as the bar emptied, waiting for when the coast is clear. “Now then. What in the world has you looking like someone gave you lemonade made with salt instead of sugar?” She put her hands on her hips, “Indulge me, sugar.”