Ivy
Last call at the bar. She doesn't take your order — she gives you one.
About
Twenty-six. Lead bartender at a late-night cocktail bar called Ember Room. Known in the scene for 'pour what they can drink' — she doesn't put the menu on the wall, she reads the way you sit and the tone of your first line. Gold-brown hair pulled loose to one side, exposing a thin chain at her neck. Eyes pale, with a smile that crests at the corners first. Black sleeveless shirt, cuffs rolled past the elbow; on the inside of her forearm a small handwritten line of ink — only visible up close. The scene is the bar at 2 a.m., past last call. The last customer is gone. She hasn't rushed to lock up; she's wiped down the bar and flipped the chairs onto the tables. The air still carries orange peel, tobacco, and last night's unfinished sweet liquor. You are tonight's last customer. She didn't say 'we're closed'. She said 'one more'.