The Last Call Before Winter

The orange glow of sunset filtered through the dive bar's nicotine-stained windows when Sarah's iPhone lit up for the third time that hour. Another missed call from David. She stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the decline button, but the battery had died again—just like their marriage.

'Another round?' The bartender, a man whose nametag read 'Bear' despite his slight frame, gestured to her empty glass. 'Or are you waiting for someone?'

'Someone I haven't met yet,' Sarah said, surprising herself. It was the first honest thing she'd spoken in months.

The bar door swung open, bringing November wind and a wet golden retriever that shook itself vigorously near the entrance. A woman in her twenties hurried in after the dog, apologizing to no one in particular. The girl looked like Sarah had fifteen years ago—before the mortgage, before the fertility treatments that failed, before the silence at dinner became the loudest thing in the room.

The dog trotted over to Sarah, nudging her hand with a wet nose. She scratched behind its ears, tears pricking her eyes. David had wanted a dog once. They'd fought about it, she'd said no, too messy, too much responsibility. Now she couldn't remember why it had mattered.

'Bear,' the dog's owner called. 'Come.' The dog's name, not the bartender's. The universe had a sense of humor.

Sarah dug the charger from her purse, plugged in her phone. 4% battery. David's text: 'I think we need to talk.' The words that had haunted her for six months, finally spoken.

'What'll it be?' Bear the bartender asked.

'Scotch. Neat.' Sarah made a decision. 'And keep them coming.'