The tempered squawking of the baseball announcers was the only sound of life in the bar. Grunting as he leaned across the counter to reach the far corner, the bartender glowered at the small figure hunched over the last stool. "Hey. Kid. We’re closing. Move along.“
The figure uncoiled, lengthening into a slender woman with a pixie cut. She smacked a piece of white gum under her canines. "Your sign’s still on,” she said with a jerk of her thumb over her bare shoulder. The movement made her visible breasts quiver.
The bartender stopped mid-wipe and sighed. "Right. Okay. Look, I’m turning off the sign.“ He crossed the distance behind the bar and flipped the switch. Neon tubes hissed and died. Hands to hips, the bar cloth dangling from his fingers, the bartender faced his last customer. "We’re closed.”
“Excellent.” The young woman swung off the stool, and with a thrill in his groin, the bartender realized she was not wearing pants. Her heels ticked away the seconds as she moved to the door, bolted it, and slunk back towards him.
He suddenly found that his hands were awkward, no matter where he intended to rest them. "Ma’am, I’ll h-h-h-have to ask you…“
"I’d prefer you give commands.” She dropped to her knees on the rubber mat, her tongue lolling. Like graceful divers, her hands disappeared into his pants and slid them off. "So? What’ll it be?“
"In your mouth,” he gasped, his hand moving without bidding to the back of her head. Her hair was coarse, dyed too many times; he grasped a handful and pressed her nose into his crotch. She accepted his length down her throat with a grateful gulp.
His eyes fell on the envelope, splashed with beer, resting where she had been sitting. His name was on the back. His fingers trembling with the effort of concentrating, he managed to extract the card.
Happy birthday, bud. Have one on us.
It was signed by bar owner and his coworkers.
Stabilizing himself on the edge of the counter with his palms, he adopted a wider stance. "Deeper, bitch,“ he said, and she went to work.