The Freudian Sip
“Sigmund Freud, I blame you for my taste in men.” I tossed aside the book I was browsing through.
“Excuse me? “A bartender with an unusually long nose looked up with a quizzical expression.
“A Cuba Libre please.”
I had caught my otherwise emotionally unavailable boyfriend sexting his secretary and wanted to drown what was left of my self-esteem in liquor.
The sip of Cuba Libre felt…wrong. It reminded me of doctor’s brandy daddy used to give me.
“If you want to talk, I am that sympathetic bartender you see in Hollywood rom-coms.” He winked.
“Typical. Is this bar always so poorly attended?” I looked around. There was a couple having drinks far away and a few guys downing what looked like beers. Other than that, Nada.
“You are in a bar on a Wednesday at 4 pm.” He rolled his eyes.
“It’s your Happy Hours.” I gagged on my drink.
“Let me guess, a teetotaler who has impulsively decided to find solace in alcohol. Right?”
“Ahh-ha, Wrong. Not a newbie to alcohol. I have enjoyed those rum filled bonbons in distant past. Don’t snigger.” I felt my heckles rising.
“How about I make you a Pinacolada, with a dash of rum? On the house, since this is your first serious drink.”
“And what do you expect in exchange for a free drink?” I asked warily, pushing away the Cuba libre.
“Just a super-surplus tip.” He smirked.
***
“You know for a reasonably successful woman, when it comes to personal life, I am always attracted to the wrong type of men.” I ranted. “Wow daddy!! Years of therapy I underwent after you left us was plainly futile.”
“In wine there is wisdom, in beer lies freedom, in water lies bacteria.” I addressed the meagre audience in the bar who was looking at me with more interest with each passing second.
Clearly, Pinacococola or whatever he had made had worked a little too well.
“Newly single women often take solo trips. Takes their mind off things.” He cleaned his counter doling out advice.
“That sounds, hic…super. Where is...?”
“Oh, depends, Leh, Spiti.” He looked up from his counter and saw my face going green. “No, not here please. There. Washroom is there”
But a dirtbag of boyfriend, misery and a drink-and-a-half on empty stomach won and I heaved all over his counter.
“Lucky, the bar is not crowded.” My joke fell flat as the bartender gave me stinky eye. I paid for my drinks (which were no longer free, thanks to my puke-fest) and walked away, ready to deal with my breakup the old-fashioned way- with a tub of coffee ice-cream- when he came running and trust his card in my hands.
“You made sure my bar will smell the entire night, but here is my card if you really need to talk. I am the bar owner.”
“Emotionally available? Not my type.” I guffawed.
Then I checked his card.
“Lucas D’Costa.” He shared his first name with my dad!
Dang!
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