Free Cocktail Hour by Tara McTiernan

so it pressed into the scratchy cotton of his long white coat. Everything was going to be okay. Wasn't it?
    They had that: a shared strong desire to have a family. There was nothing she wanted more - lots of little ones to raise and love, adding back into the circle of life. Babysitting while growing up and her time with her nieces and nephews reinforced everything she adored about those little human beings: their soft-sweetness, their inherent goodness, their innocence that needed so much guidance and care. Her heart was bursting with love for them, their to-be children. Couldn't God hear her heart?
    She would pray every day. She would wish upon every star in the sky. Someone had to be listening.
     

 
     
    Vodka Martini
     
    At quarter to seven Sharon walked through the glass doors of Ibiza, the whole wall facing the street made of glass, and into the candlelit bar that fronted the restaurant. The bar was decorated in earthy muted reds and oranges and had a sleek black shellacked-looking bar that stretched along one wall. Muted Spanish guitar music was playing, but it was early in the evening while dinner was still being served and the mellow mood music was certain to be replaced by the pounding bass of house music and hip-hop later that night.
    The bar was exactly what she expected to be: it had all the too-cool ambiance, and of course, the requisite strivers. Every bar stool was occupied by them: those youthful tri-state area residents who wanna-be just like Hollywood starlets, leaning forward in life, full of postures and airs, their oversize expectations matching the oversize salaries and extravagances of the area’s many movers and shakers. They couldn't afford their designer-label lifestyles, instead gambling on overnight success or a fat sugar daddy.
    They represented everything that Sharon was not. If Sharon didn't deeply believe in her own way of life, she'd be embarrassed about the worn-down loafers, discount jeans, and simple pale-blue button-down shirt she was wearing. Instead, she shouldered her way through a cluster of thin and beautiful women teetering on high-heels by the door and made her way to the bar, all the while swearing at herself for agreeing to meet Chelsea and her friends.  Right now she could be opening her door and walking into her house, Fred running to greet her while yelling at her in his little scratchy voice before wrapping his furry body around her ankles in forgiveness.
    At the bar there was one small opening between shoulders where she could wedge herself in and order her drink. Leaning in, she craned her neck, looking for service. The auburn-haired female bartender was wearing the usual employee uniform of bars in the area: black skirt, very low-cut top, fishnet stockings, and stood at the other end of the bar clearly reveling in the attention she was receiving from three male strivers sitting there, her eyelashes at full-flutter. Sharon rested her elbow on her little slice of painted wood to wait, wondering if she really wanted the drink after all. Maybe she should just wait until Chelsea showed up, claim a stomachache, and run into the welcoming arms of home.
    Or she could claim a headache. She did have the beginnings of one, so it wouldn’t be a lie, just an exaggeration. Or not. Just thinking about what started it - the thought of Bob Crandall as her boss, Alan gone - was enough to make the sharp pinching feeling just above her eyebrows grow. Ow. Now she really needed a drink, or a handful of Advil. The drink was handier and probably less damaging to her liver.
    Just then the man on her right, who was sitting with his back to her, turned around. She glanced at him and then did a double-take.
    Oh, no. God, why? Here? Tonight? It was Mr. Party-Man himself. Probably trolling for babes so they could spend the night making a racket on that damned trampoline. She wanted to shred that thing. She quickly turned back toward the end of the bar where the bartender was now leaning her