Alright, lasagna's going fine in the oven, plates and utensils are already set, radio's tuned to Brad's favorite station... yeah, I think I've got everything well under control. And if I've calculated things right, he should be coming back right about... now. And the moment I think that, sure enough, I can hear the telltale jingling of keys near the front door, and a few seconds later, Brad slumps into the hallway. "Hi, honey!" I call out from the kitchen. "Dinner's almost ready, so just sit down in the dining room!"
While I continue working, I can hear him go through the usual motions. He takes off his suit jacket, hangs it up right near the front door where I'll get it later, walks over to the dining room, slumps down in his chair, and lets out a heavy sigh. It must've been another rough day at work for him, but hey, that's what I'm here for, to make it all better with some home-cooked dinner and some love and affection. Pretty soon, the lasagna is ready, and I prepare our plates, bringing them in to the dining room with a smile. "Here you go, honey. My specialty. I know you like it a lot, and I think you deserve it for being such a hard worker," I tell him as I serve our dinner.
I can tell that that causes the beginnings of a smile to appear on his lips as he prepares to dig in. "Thanks, babe, you're just the fuckin' best," he replies, then chows down with gusto.
"Well, I'm not just a nice set of muscles and a tight ass, after all," I say with a cheeky grin. "Bad day at work, huh?" And that's all it takes for him to start talking, as always. So while we eat our dinner, Brad regales me with tales of his job, a bartender spot at the most exclusive, high class bar downtown. The kind of place you don't get into unless your net worth is over seven digits at the least. However, such an elite clientele means that the adage of "the customer is always right" is very pervasive, but that also means that some of those customers come up with some horrendous stuff that offends any sensible taste. After landing the job, Brad had to go to multiple different schools to learn absolutely everything there is to learn about mixology, but also the ability to swallow your pride.
"And this one motherfucker orders a Manhattan with Sprite! Fuckin' Sprite! God almighty, save me from these imbeciles..." he mutters to himself while I clean up the plates after we finish up our meal. It seems like every day he has a new abomination of a cocktail that was ordered by some customer of his, and I have to say, it's always a sight to behold to see such a little, soft-looking guy like Brad get so heated over this. "I need a god damn drink," he then says, and that's my signal. When we first bought this house, we were surprised to find that it actually has a scaled-down reproduction of a bar in a side room. It only seats two people, but that's more than enough for us, and so we've spent many a night with Brad teaching me the ins and outs of drinks. One might think it ironic that he actually doesn't want to make any drinks at home, but given that it's his job, it makes sense to me that he doesn't want to have more work at home. I'm still not really good at it, but I think Brad doesn't really care about the quality of the drink. It's the quality time together that he wants.
So after quickly washing the dishes, I head over to the side room and take my usual spot behind the bar, with Brad sitting on one of the two barstools, smoking a cigar. "What'll it be, honey?" I ask him.
He mulls it over for a moment. "Hm, how about a Long Island... actually, no. Hit me with a Tokyo iced tea, babe," he tells me, and the quizzical expression on my face is all the answer he needs. Of course, he's always glad to help me out when I'm stumped, so he explains, "Tokyo iced tea is just a Long Island, except swap the Coke for Sprite and swap the triple sec for Midori." Of course, I have no idea what exactly Midori is, so that quizzical expression stays on my face. "Have we not had something with Midori yet? Um, shit, where'd I fuckin' put that thing... uh... check the lower cupboards? Just look for some green shit, that's the right one," he tells me. Unclear as to exactly what I'm looking for, I start searching the bar cupboards, which do hold a quite staggering array of bottles, but like he said, I quite quickly spot a very distinctive green bottle and bring it out, setting it on the bartop. "Yeah, that's it," he confirms for me.
With that, I begin mulling over the ingredients. "Alright, so that's Sprite, this green stuff, uh, Tequila, rum, vodka, sour mix..." I trail off, pretty sure that I'm still missing something.
Thankfully, he soon helps me out. "Gin. That's the last one. Alcohol, sour mix and ice in the shaker, shake that shit, strain into highball with ice, top with Sprite. See, you're doing better, babe. Used to be you'd draw a complete blank when I asked you for a Long Island," he says, and I can hear the genuine appreciation in his voice. I fix the drink up in accordance to his specifications while he loosens his tie, puffing his cigar with a look of contentment on his face. "God, it's always nice being on the other side of the fuckin' bar," he mutters to himself. By the time I finish up the drink, the atmosphere has gotten a bit smokier, making the ambiance even more bar-like. The drink itself looks like a mess, the green melon liqueur turning the whole thing bright green like some sort of radioactive spill, but he happily takes it from me and takes his first sip.
"Is it any good?" I ask him, somewhat nervous.
"I kinda hate this," he replies. "Somebody ordered it like a week ago and I was wondering if it was worth a fuck, and I can tell you, Riley, it ain't worth a fuck. You made it just fine, it's just the drink itself is garbage. I mean, I'm gonna drink the shit anyway, because I ain't here for high class drinking, but still. God."
We both become quiet for a while as he continues sipping his cocktail, soft jazz music playing from the radio in the corner. Eventually, I break the silence with a question. "Alright, Brad, what do you wanna do tonight? You wanna keep drinking, have a quiet night in front of the TV, or... do you wanna... take your hunky ex-football player husband to bed?"