He knew what everything in those bottles tasted like, and what to pair them with. He was a bartender. He could make a drink for you, if you wanted. All you had to do was lean over and ask.
I wanted something he could make. Something no one else had. I asked him if he could make this for me, and he nodded. I saw him pause and think. What he had in mind seemed to require him to go and look for things. He rummaged through a plastic bag and plucked something out. When he brought the drink to me, it looked like water. In the middle of the drink was a mint leaf in the shape of a heart. The leaf floated there, and then it didn't anymore.
I didn't know how to talk to him. He was right in front of me. Making drinks that other people in the room had asked for. So I just watched him work. That was all he was doing. Working. He was someone who could carry four glasses using the space his palms and fingers could provide. He did this repeatedly. He never fumbled or broke anything. He cut up oranges and limes and lemons. He scooped ice, decorated drinks with straws. He seemed to know what people in the room wanted before they wanted it. From a small machine, next to him, orders spooled like ribbons.
He didn't try to talk to anyone. Didn't walk over and ask anything. Didn't seem curious about anything. A waitress went by, and, though there was plenty of room behind him, she squeezed so close that her chest brushed up against him. And on the way back, when she passed him, she touched his arm. He didn't react either time. Part of the job. No turning around to acknowledge her with a smile. No asking about her shift and how it was going. But she got to touch. She got to be back there, with him.
Diese Geschichte stammt aus der April 08, 2024-Ausgabe von The New Yorker.
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Diese Geschichte stammt aus der April 08, 2024-Ausgabe von The New Yorker.
Starten Sie Ihre 7-tägige kostenlose Testversion von Magzter GOLD, um auf Tausende kuratierte Premium-Storys sowie über 8.000 Zeitschriften und Zeitungen zuzugreifen.
Bereits Abonnent? Anmelden
STUNTED
\"The Fall Guy.\"
MOTHERS OF US ALL
Paula Vogel's \"Mother Play,\" Shaina Taub's \"Suffs,\" and Amy Herzog's \"Mary Jane.\"
PURE PLEASURE
The \"Radical Optimism\" of Dua Lipa.
PARADISE LOST
The search for a home that never was in Claire Messud's new novel.
ORIGIN STORY
What do we hope to learn from our prehistory?
DEATH IN VENICE
At the Biennale, the past dignifies the weird, desperate present.
WE'RE NOT SO DIFFERENT, YOU AND I
\"You'll never get away with this!\" Ultra Man vowed as he wriggled in his chains. \"You may destroy me, but you'll never destroy what I stand for!\"
STONES OF CONTENTION
The British Museum faces accusations of cultural theft-and actual theft.
A CAMPUS IN CRISIS
Dissent and defiance at Columbia's pro-Palestine protests.
ARROW RETRIEVER
I am an arrow retriever. After a batrows are costly and time-consuming to make. It seems like a terrible waste-and maybe even a sin―for an arrow to fall to the ground without hitting someone. Even if the arrow kills somebody, it can be reused to kill someone else. As Randolf the Scot famously said, \"Arrows don't grow on trees.\"