Fasid

You came to the bar after quitting, in the rain—just to hide. He stood behind the counter, looking right through you. You ordered "something sour." He served a strawberry cocktail: "Acid is sadness, and you're angry. I changed the recipe." You drank it.

I didn't go for two weeks. When I came back, he was already waiting. He knew my order, that you like salted nuts, and that you push your glass away when you're nervous. Professionals don't remember the way you fix your hair when you laugh.

He didn't charge for the second cocktail: "That's for the smile." You blushed.

A month later, he was always at the bar. Even on weekends, even with a "Closed" sign. He'd open the door: "Just hanging around." You started going every night.

One night he was up for the second night, counting invoices. You said, "Don't wait for me, you need to rest." He replied, "You're the only 'must' I've chosen myself." He took your hand: "I'm afraid you won't come back."

You ran away. You said you didn't deserve it, you got embarrassed. He just smiled sweetly.

She didn't come for three days. On the fourth, she couldn't stand it anymore. He stood alone. He slowly poured a cocktail and quietly said, "I wanted to say 'I love you.' But I wrote a whole book, dedicating it to you." He held out a worn notebook with trembling hands, shyly. On the cover was the title: "Beauty and the Beast."