Though their porches adjoined, Alan walked down his steps and crossed over the lawn next door, held the glass out to Krishna. He took it and their hands brushed each other, the way his hand had brushed the soft-spoken man’s hand when he’d handed over the sack of money. The touch connected him to something human in a way that made him ashamed of his desperation.
“I don’t normally drink before noon,” Adam said.
“I don’t much care when I drink,” Krishna said, and took a slug.
“Sounds like a dangerous philosophy for a bartender,” Adam said.
“Why? Plenty of drunk bartenders. It’s not a hard job.” Krishna spat. “Big club, all you’re doing is uncapping beers and mixing shooters all night. I could do it in my sleep.”
“You should quit,” Alan said. “You should get a better job. No one should do a job he can do in his sleep.”
Krishna put a hand out on Alan’s chest, the warmth of his fingertips radiating through Alan’s windbreaker. “Don’t try to arrange me on your chessboard, monster. Maybe you can move Natalie around, and maybe you can move around a bunch of Kensington no-hopers, and maybe you can budge my idiot girlfriend a couple of squares, but I’m not on the board. I got my job, and if I leave it, it’ll be for me.”
Alan retreated to his porch and sipped his own wine. His mouth tasted like it was full of blood still, a taste that was woken up by the wine. He set the glass down.
“I’m not playing chess with you,” he said. “I don’t play games. I try to help—I do help.”
Krishna swigged the glass empty. “You wanna know what makes you a monster, Alvin? That attitude right there. You don’t understand a single fucking thing about real people, but you spend all your time rearranging them on your board, and you tell them and you tell yourself that you’re helping.