The Wild One by Gemma Burgess

try to think of a good comeback, but I just sort of giggle inanely instead. Goddamnit. Why can’t I think of funny things to say when I need them?
    Then we change the bathroom lights (while I try not to think about the underwear-waxed-to-my-vagina situation) and I add something else highly necessary I bought in the hardware store: a soap dispenser to affix to the wall. I’m fast running out of my pathetic savings from my preschool job, but to hell with it: I suddenly want to help Joe, to do everything I can so Potstill has a fighting chance at survival. And that means a decent toilet with nice soap.
    â€œThis looks so much better!” I exclaim.
    â€œI found this the other day in the storeroom,” says Joe, holding up a huge old-fashioned metal fan. “If we have this at the back of the bar, and we open the windows at the front, it might not be so stuffy, right? And it looks kind of—”
    â€œIndustrial chic.” I try to sound like I know what I’m talking about. “Totally.”
    Next I sit at the bar, while Joe trains me in the art of bartending. The top whiskeys, the register, which glasses go where and what we use them for, how the ice machine works …
    Then he invites me to join him behind the bar.
    After confidently charging around the place changing lightbulbs and planning décor for the last hour, I suddenly feel strangely nervous. There’s something physically and emotionally intense about being in this narrow little bar area with Joe when there are no customers here.
    It’s such a tiny space. I am acutely aware of how close he is to me at all times, of where I’m looking, what I’m doing with my hands, the fact that I seem to be constantly in his way, how tall he is, how … attractive. I mean, I don’t like him like that. I really don’t. And yet … I feel sort of giggly and shy around him, like I find myself smiling so much around him that my cheeks hurt. What is that about? Lame.
    I clear my throat. “That’s it? We only make five cocktails?”
    â€œNo, we make dozens of cocktails, but you can’t learn more than five in a shift,” says Joe. “Plus, now you and I have to drink the five we made. More than five and we’d be langered.”
    â€œLangered?”
    Joe grins. “Irish slang. Drunk.”
    â€œOh.” I look up at Joe. His dark hair is clean but about two months overdue for a haircut and sticks up at weird angles. And he’s wearing a plaid flannel cowboy-type shirt. (Actually, I think that if you’re a dude, you have to own a plaid flannel shirt when you live in Brooklyn. Like, by law.)
    â€œâ€˜Langer’ also means something else…” He points to his crotch.
    â€œHow confusing,” I say, trying not to look at Joe’s crotch.
    â€œIndeed. Right, Let’s start the demonstration.” Joe grabs a glass. “Coco, may I introduce the Whiskey Sour? Now, we make our whiskey sours like the good Lord intended: fresh lemon juice, simple syrup, ice, and a good bolt of whiskey. Mix with anger, pour with love…” He shakes the cocktail shaker furiously and then delicately cracks it open and pours the frothy concoction into a chilled mason jar. “See? Go on, try it.”
    I take a sip, and gasp at the icy bitterness. “Wow. I mean, yum, but that is sour. ” I pause. “And I suppose, thus the name. Whiskey Sour.”
    â€œRight. My God, the brains on you. Genius.”
    I stifle a snort of laughter. Joe takes a slug, hands the glass back to me, then starts the next demonstration. I can’t believe Joe is going to all this effort to make cocktails just for me. He’s so hot and funny and—pay attention, Coco.
    â€œAn Old-Fashioned. Sugar cube, Angostura bitters, water, crush the cube, muddle…”
    He is grinding the sugar with such an intense frown that I start laughing, and he looks up in