Pete lines the rim of a glass with an orange peel, tossing the broken rime into the trash. He took the frosted stainless shaker into his right hand and poured pretty pink, a bleeding strawberry stream into the glass, grabbing another curled peel with his left to set on the edge of the rim. Together with a brimming gin fizz, he places the drinks before two women in their early twenties. 

It was a Wednesday night, nearing 10. There is a red hue that caresses the bar. It expands and flattens over the bar tables across the way. It dances darkly on the booths in the back. The room is hot. The red lights are hotter. 

The cosmopolitan rests in front a tall, natural blond, her healthy smile reflecting strong midwestern roots. Her friend quietly sips the gin fizz, smaller and more aware of her surroundings. Her eyes roam past her friend, accounting for the people coming in and out the door. Perhaps looking for someone. Perhaps just looking. 

Parallel to the far right sits a man alone, content with the appetizers and nursing his IPA. A first date rests uncomfortably closest to him, around the corner of the bar. To his left, Pete watches what he’ll label as finance bros in the register, two men in their early thirties, still wearing their tailored suits from wall street offices. 

Pete fills two table orders of white wine, sliding the glasses to the left end for the server to pick up. He’s been working at this bar for the last two years since he decided to use his abilities as an advantage instead of a burden. With much practice behind the bar, he can now choose whose mind’s eye to see through. Whose memories he would relive. Whose thoughts and feelings and perspective he experiences as if it was his own. An intention must be set in the pour, an invisible spark transferred into the liquid when he presents it to the recipient. And when they take their first, third, or even final sip, he can pull their memories from their eyes, filling his own pupils with a gifted hindsight to learn their stories and truths. Best place to hear tales and spill your sorrows is to your bartender. Pete doesn’t even need you to open your mouth to get a taste of where you came from. It’s all inside, waiting right behind the eyes. 

He turns and punches orders into the register, switching to the tab of the two twenties, the gossip girls. He nicknamed them after the animated conversation he overheard about the definitive factors that make one a Blair or a Serena. He knows that the Cosmopolitan has taken an enthusiastic sip, her inhibitions quickly lowering with the pink courage. If the lights were up and patrons were sharp, it would have been noticeable that Pete’s eyes slowly lightened from hazel hues to a soft oceanic blue. And behind him, the young woman’s friend would have seen green flecks dancing their way into her companion’s irises. For now, the dark rooms and heated energy hides the mystical current vibrating between the two. Pete no longer sees the shelves of liquor illuminated against glass. Instead, the mirror was smaller and sat upon an ivory vanity table. He glanced down and sees what she saw, the cosmopolitan girl, wearing a wrapped silk robe, seated tiredly. 

She looked into the mirror and pulled her left eye down, expertly applying a thin black line across her eyelid. Pete admired the matching wings as she tilts her head this way and that, determining if they were even. A sweet voice carried from a nearby speaker, girlish pop music fluttered about the room. 

A vibration on the table rattles the scattered makeup tubes and brushes. The dainty perfume bottles ding slightly in the glass tray. Her cell lit up with an audio message from Julie. She pressed play and picked up an eyelash curler. She trapped her lashes inside, shaping them with the metal compression. Julie’s voice rang out, stretching her name in singsong. 

Liiiiannnnaaaa. So, I’m running late for tonight. What else is new. I got caught up with that asshole from the marketing department, the elevator on the way out. He asked me to go for drinks again. I have no clue how many damn times I can say no thank you until he gets the hint. Just because you’ve slept with half the women in your department, does not mean you’re the Casanova of the office. I can’t stand the audacity of men. Ugh. —

Liana grabbed a tube of mascara, swiping her eyes and Pete gazes through them. 

—Anyways, I’ll text you when I’m on my way to the bar. I’m about a 30 min subway ride, not paying for a car if we’re getting cocktails tonight. Girl can only spend so much before the bank breaks. Bye-eeeeeee. 

She smiled at the ending, typical in Julie fashion. It made no difference to her whether Julie was late. Liana was never on time. Her mother was the same way, the two constantly chided that they would be late for their own funeral. At least she was going to look good for her funeral. She would rather die than to be seen in public without makeup. She shivered at the thought. Pete feels the goosebumps raised on her arms. 

Liana held down the recording button to reply to Julie.

That’s fine with me. I’m not even dressed yet. Are you changing before you go or coming straight from work? Not that we need to impress anyone, it’s a Wednesday. And men are trash. Just us girls tonight. See you soon boo. XO XO—she smiled and whispered—gossip girl. 

She sent the message and stood up from the vanity table. One last look in the mirror. Liana looked into her eyes and seemed to speak directly to Pete hidden behind them. She knew that whatever she did tonight, it would be to impress, to cajole, to entice a man. The attention. The admiration. The validation. She needed and wanted it, always. And she knew this. She knew it and will say it but never tried to change it. Because a leopard never changes its spots. And she loved the thrill of being caught, knowing fully well that she put herself right in the line of the hunter. Liana turned from the mirror and unwrapped her robe, letting the silk fall in a delicate heap on the floor as she walked away. 

Pete blinks three times slowly as his eyes adjust back to the current surroundings. The mirror has expanded back into the length of the wall, lined with glass liquor bottles. The lights are dimmed and red. The soft pop music switches to loud indie beats. He turns away from the register when he is confident his eyes have returned to their hazel state. He glances at the gossip girls, Liana and Julie, and watches their mouths move in a synchronicity of old friends. A handheld up to Pete’s left line of sight brings him back to the reality of bartending. The finance bros motion for his attention. He wipes the mess of eggshells and yolk on the counter, leftover from the separated whites added to the shaker. He shakes out the used rag over the trash. ...