Twenty-Seven
Ace
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“This is probably the only time you’ll ever hear an instructor say something like this,” the man in the front of a makeshift classroom in the center of Prohibition Bar shoves his thick black glasses up his pug nose, “but it’s perfectly okay to be buzzed in my classroom. Notes will be emailed. The most important thing tonight is that you get some hands on experience and that you have fun.”
I glance at Aidy to my right, standing there in a little black dress that hits mid-thigh. She looks at me, lifting her shoulders to her ear and grinning. A loose strand of blonde hair falls in her face, the rest of it pulled back with some sparkly headband contraption that makes her glow under the soft lights above.
It’s dark inside Prohibition, dim lighting and Duke Ellington playing from hidden speakers. Outside it’s pouring rain, and there’s no place I’d rather be tonight.
Aidy mentioned once that she hadn’t been on a proper date in well over a year, and seeing how we’ve been spending a lot of time together, I thought it seemed like the right thing to do.
I could’ve taken the easy way out. Dinner and a movie. Drinks and a show. But I wanted to be original. I wanted to give her a night she’d never forget. So I called up an old friend of a friend who happens to own this bar in Gramercy that has mixology lessons, and we were able to secure a spot tonight.
The instructor’s assistant walks past our table in the back row, lining up barware and things like stuffed olives and vermouth as well as four recipe cards printed on thick, cream cardstock.
“Tonight, we’ll be learning four recipes,” the instructor says, “first of which will be a classic martini.”
Aidy reaches for the cocktail shaker, taking the lid off and peering inside. “It’s heavier than I thought it would be.”
“Everyone, please check your table and let me know if you do not have one of the following,” the instructor calls out, pacing around the room. “A muddler, a strainer, tongs, a spoon, a shot glass, a mixing glass, and a Boston tin.”
We scan our set up, ensuring we have everything we need, and Aidy gives him a thumbs up when he walks past.
“This is so much fun,” she says, leaning closer and standing on her toes, her breath warm on my ear.
“We haven’t even started,” I whisper.
Her blue eyes are lit, and her mouth is slightly closer than usual since she’s wearing the sexiest pair of red fuck-me heels I’ve ever seen.
“So?” She gives me a wink, her red mouth pursed. Every time I look at that full mouth of hers, I want to kiss it. I’m convinced she wore bright red lipstick tonight to torture me, knowing I wouldn’t kiss her with that on.
It’s okay.
I’ll tease the hell out of her, and by the end of the night, she’ll be wiping that red off her lips and begging me to kiss her.
Another assistant comes by pushing a cart, depositing two chilled martini stems on each table.
“Everybody ready?” the instructor calls out, slicking his hands together. “Okay, I’d like to officially welcome you once again to Prohibition’s Mixology 101. I’m your instructor, Carlos, and tonight we’ll be making four cocktails. If you could, please grab your Boston shaker. There are twelve steps to make the perfect martini, so please pay close attention.”
Aidy grabs the shaker and gives me another smile.
“A few things you should know before we begin,” Carlos says, holding up his Boston tin. “Whenever we mix a drink in a metal container, we swirl. When we mix a drink in glass, we stir.”
Aidy leans in, bumping her arm against mine. “I didn’t know that. Did you know that?”
I nod, “I did.”
As our instructor rattles on about ice cubes, their sizes, the appropriate type and shape for each drink, and the how many to use when mixing a martini – seven or eight – I’m only half paying attention. All eyes are glued to Carlos except mine.
I can’t stop looking at her.
The rest of the evening is a blur. We listen. We mix. We taste. We taste some more. Two hours later, we’ve crafted four cocktails: a classic martini, an Asian pear mojito, an Amaretto sour, and a Moscow Mule.
By the time the class is over, the rain has only let up slightly, and she’s well past buzzed.
“I think we were only supposed to sample the cocktails,” Aidy says, her words slow and gentle as we step outside. It’s sprinkling again, and the rumble of thunder above threatens to usher in another summer storm. “I drank way too much, and now I can’t feel my face. Why’d you let me drink so much?”
My plan was for us to walk the neighborhood. To get to know each other. To take our time and enjoy each other’s company as organically as possible.
“You were having a good time,” I say.
“You didn’t drink that much.” Aidy pouts.
“I sampled.”
“I should’ve sampled.”
Lighting flashes over our heads.
“One-thousand-one. One-thousand-two . . .” Aidy says, just before the grumble of thunder fills the air.
“What are you doing?”
“That’s how you know how far away the storm is. It’s two miles away.”
“Is that true?”
“I don’t know.” Her heels scuff the cement, and we walk slowly, though the rain seems to be coming down faster by the second. “That’s what Wren always said when we were growing up. I never fact-checked it.”
I glance at her mouth, watching the way it moves as she rambles on about her sister and how smart she was and how she’s a bit of a know-it-all but that’s just Wren. And then I realize her red lipstick has worn off over the last two hours by all the drinking and talking and smiling she’s done.
A loud clap of thunder makes Aidy jump, and she silences her commentary as she looks at the night sky. Up ahead, I hear the rain pelting the sidewalk, moving closer in our direction, and it occurs to me that I left our umbrella back at Prohibition. To our left is a black and white striped awning belonging to some boutique that closed hours ago. Taking her arm, I lead her beneath it.
Positioning her against the limestone wall of the shopfront, I lift my hand to her face, her eyes slowly meeting mine. Her mouth curls in the corners before her gaze falls to my lips. Bending down, I claim her, the way I’ve wanted to since I first picked her up three hours ago. Her mouth belongs to me. Her smile. Her effortless sweetness.
My lips graze hers, as if I’m unable to separate myself from her. Rain pours outside the awning, pelting above our heads and gushing all around us.
“Come home with me tonight, Aidy.” I’m not asking. I stare into her sapphire eyes, and she bats her long lashes, exhaling. My hands fall to her waist and I pull her against me, kissing her once again. Her lips are soft, pillowed. Their taste? Addictive. “For some insane reason I can’t seem to get enough of you.”
“I always knew you were the crazy one,” she says, standing on her toes and kissing me. “Fine. You twisted my arm.”
Twenty-Eight
Aidy
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