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Tony absently wipes the wooden bartop down with a rag, glaring at the door. He takes his time with this chore, as it is one of the few chances he gets to avoid the customers and be alone with his thoughts. They are a decent bunch, he supposes—The customers, not his thoughts-- but today he does not want to deal with them. Not today. In fact, he would have taken the day off, but Tony has been waiting all day for that door to open and let in fresh light and the cool relaxing atmosphere that he associates with her presence. She's not here, though, and it's almost time to close up. Some old fart down at the end catches his eye. It's Robbie, he reminds himself, and greets him appropriately. Robbie is taking his time articulating his order. Tony looks not at him but past him, at the door. Spit it out, he wants to say, Hurry up and pick your poison, you drunk. But Tony has never spoken thusly to a customer, and besides, Robbie is his friend. They all are, he guesses. They all think of him as a nice guy, an alcoholic's angel. Even her. He knows why she drinks, at least, and he doesn't mind slipping her the occasional free drink. More importantly, any guy who gives her a hard time is out on his a** faster than you can say, 'bum's rush.' Out there it's every man for himself, but in here he won't have any trouble. He is respected. Everyone thinks he's all right, sure. But do any of them realize it's his birthday? Has anyone so much as tried to buy him a shot? No. They're too busy with their own problems.
Where is she? Tony's thoughts had progressively gotten more and more grave. He wondered what could be taking her so long, and soon he feared something may have happened to her. But, no, that didn't feel right, and, anyway, she could take care of herself. Tony wondered if she was blowing him off. No, he thought, but maybe she's off blowing someone. Some prig. He'd heard all about them, never met them of course, but heard of them. No one who came to this bar had any chance of walking out with her. Not a chance. But it was always the same story when she came in here do drink away her hearbreak. He listened. He gave advice. After all, he was Tony, the great sage and barman. But the truth was, it broke his heart too.
Driving home alone, he nearly missed his exit to his crummy apartment. He was tired. Tired of working his hands to the bone, tired of his empty apartment. Tired of having no one to share his story with. He was tired of the rut he was in, and maybe he was just tired of who he was.
Tony, the alcohol angel.
He opens the door and fumbles for the light switch, but before he can he notices a light in the living room. Abandoning the lights, he wanders toward the source of the light like a moth to a flame. She's waiting for him there, with a birthday cake and a single candle on top. She looks great, in a t-shirt, jeans, and socks. He wonders for an instant what she's wearing underneath, but only for an instant. The flame reveals a perfect face, untouched by anything more than a thin coating of lipgloss. He smiles, and she returns his smile.
“Happy birthday,” she says. “And many more.”