“Six Cosmo—”
But before we can complete the phrase, we start babbling other names.
“Gimlet.”
“Lemondrop.”
“Glass of cabernet.”
As we speak, our minds flicker in and out, buffeting each other with moments of dark loneliness before we are one again, and we cannot meet each other’s eyes.
“Martini.”
With a sigh, we add, “One Cosmopolitan.”
“Water.”
At the last we all look at each other, astonished, until we realize it was Sarah-girl speaking. She frowns at the bar. “What? I’m underage.”
We elbow her and step on her foot. “You’re our intern,” we whisper loudly. “You can’t be underage.”
“I can be whatever I want to be,” she retorts.
“Get her a Cosmopolitan,” we say to the bartender, only to shake our heads.
“Maybe she should choose,” we say.
“She’d be better off with a beer.”
“She
