Sydney

I. Didn't Cha Know.

The low, sultry beat vibrating through my earphones perfectly matched the steady thrumming of the pulse in my veins. It was undoubtedly my favorite time of day: 1 a.m. when the bar just closed and the only thing standing in the way of a very y ménage a trois made up of me, a bubble bath and a chilled bottle of vodka was the side work checklist that needed to be completed every night. Monotonous, sure, but I almost always sent the other bartender home to do it myself. I could listen to whatever music I wanted and groove while stocking bottles and washing glasses, it was how I chose to unwind after a hectic shift.

I couldn't help rotating my hips in perfect time where I stood running the tip of my pen along the labels of liquor bottles displayed on lighted glass shelves. I took a lingering moment to check out my reflection in the mirror behind them and was satisfied to see I didn't look as sweaty as I felt. My hazel eyes were weary but bright, flecks of green nestled within dark amber that became prominent when I was in a good mood. I'd long stopped wearing anything more than lipstick to work so at least my face wasn't melting off. My skin - the color of burnt cinnamon and just as hot - had a slight sheen to it as a result of running my around a bar for eight hours. Still, it was my happy place and I was glad to be there.

The bar, Antonio's, wasn't owned by a guy named Antonio and hadn't ever been to my knowledge. In fact, it had recently sold to a currently nameless guy I'd probably meet soon. Whoever bought it made a great investment because we were packed every night of the week - especially now that it was the middle of May and classes at Yale ended, but in the nineteen months I'd worked there every shift held a steady-to-heavy stream of business. If I walked out with less than three hundred in my pocket I considered it a slow night. At least I could claim to be moderately successful since graduating from college with what my dad charmingly called a pre-law degree that's just a two hundred-thousand-dollar piece of paper collecting dust on a shelf. My dad's great.

At 24 I had no grand ambitions, no real goals as of yet. The only thing I wanted was to enjoy being young, black and rich. Well not rich, but not destitute either. In the two years since leaving Yale behind I'd been a tornado of indecision, funding my own vacations and parties and shopping sprees...though not lately. It was almost as if there was this voice in the back of my mind telling me it was time to calm down and I was going to have to start getting my together, so I considered it my last summer of being reckless. Luckily working at the bar left my days free to hang out at the lake near my duplex, go swimming and get day drunk or whatever. It was a good life to have.

Forcing myself to focus I got back to my list and swayed instinctively to Erykah Badu, Goddess Queen that she is. It had been a good night since I got to hang around my favorite co-worker and best friend, Colin. We sang and danced and flirted with the cute boys who would come in for prete