Free When I Was You by Minka Kent
Authors: Minka Kent
years, I’ve hardly touched any of it. They put me through college. Gave me my first business loan so I could open my insurance agency. Left me their house. From the age of eight, I’ve never wanted for anything, and since they’ve departed this earth, I haven’t had the heart to tap into the generous fortune they placed in my name—not in any notable amounts anyway.
My grandfather always said, “Money talks, wealth whispers,” and it’s a motto I’ve always tried to live by.
I rummage through the rest of the other Brienne’s pictures, and at some point I stop gasping every time I realize we shop at the same places—or rather, she shops where I used to shop—and that her signature drink also happens to be a Sazerac.
I pore over her photos again, trying to pick up on any other nuances I can find and adding to my list whenever applicable. Almost in a trance, I’m catapulted into her familiar world, and by the time I stop to take a break, I realize it’s nearly two in the afternoon.
My battery flashes low, and I place my phone on the charger. I force myself to step away, literally and figuratively, but it’s only when I’m making my way outside to grab the mail that I realize her photos, while disturbing and unoriginal, paint her very much as a creature of habit.
Particularly on Thursdays.
When she goes to Italia Fina for happy hour.
From 3:00 to 6:00 PM.
CHAPTER 12
I arrive at Italia Fina at half past three on Thursday and order a Sazerac from an unfamiliar bartender, before claiming an empty booth in the corner of the bar. Once settled, I spread out my laptop and notebook, opening a few random documents and spreadsheets—all props.
And then I wait.
The place isn’t nearly as busy as it used to be. Maybe there’s some new happy hour hot spot that opened recently that I’m unaware of. But there are enough patrons here that I don’t stick out like a sore thumb while simultaneously maintaining a clear view of the main entrance and the entirety of the twenty-six-foot bar.
By the time I finish my drink, it’s almost four, and there’s still no sign of the other me.
I check her Instagram again.
She hasn’t posted anything since yesterday—a close-up of yesterday’s cappuccino complete with a foam heart—and then I scroll through her most recent photos. Every Thursday for the past nine weeks, she’s been coming here.
There are still two “happy” hours left, so I order another drink from a server who walks past, and then I scan the room before turning back to my laptop screen.
By the time my second drink is almost finished, it’s half past five. I milked this one as best I could, but I order a third—this one not for drinking, but as a prop, like my work setup. I needed just enough to take the edge off my anxiety while still keeping a clear head.
Pressure builds in my bladder, and I check the time. Only twenty-five minutes left until the nightly drink specials end, and if she’s not here yet, I’m beginning to think she has no intention of showing at all.
I’m seconds from packing up when the front door swings open, spilling a dash of twilight into the dark restaurant for half a second, and then in sashays a confident woman, finger combing her hair as she smiles at the bartender and takes the last spot on the left. Crossing her legs at the knee, she hooks the heel of a pointy-toed black stiletto on the lowest rung of the barstool.
They converse for a second as she drapes her Goyard bag over the back of her seat. A minute later he mixes her drink.
Rye whiskey.
Bitters.
Absinthe.
A sugar cube.
She’s having a Sazerac, too, which should come as no surprise to me given what I already know about her from her profile.
The bartender glances in my direction, probably wondering why it is that two women have come in on the same night and ordered the same very specific drink.
Someone once told me a Sazerac is a man’s drink. The taste is distinct, acquired. And maybe it’s a fair
My grandfather always said, “Money talks, wealth whispers,” and it’s a motto I’ve always tried to live by.
I rummage through the rest of the other Brienne’s pictures, and at some point I stop gasping every time I realize we shop at the same places—or rather, she shops where I used to shop—and that her signature drink also happens to be a Sazerac.
I pore over her photos again, trying to pick up on any other nuances I can find and adding to my list whenever applicable. Almost in a trance, I’m catapulted into her familiar world, and by the time I stop to take a break, I realize it’s nearly two in the afternoon.
My battery flashes low, and I place my phone on the charger. I force myself to step away, literally and figuratively, but it’s only when I’m making my way outside to grab the mail that I realize her photos, while disturbing and unoriginal, paint her very much as a creature of habit.
Particularly on Thursdays.
When she goes to Italia Fina for happy hour.
From 3:00 to 6:00 PM.
CHAPTER 12
I arrive at Italia Fina at half past three on Thursday and order a Sazerac from an unfamiliar bartender, before claiming an empty booth in the corner of the bar. Once settled, I spread out my laptop and notebook, opening a few random documents and spreadsheets—all props.
And then I wait.
The place isn’t nearly as busy as it used to be. Maybe there’s some new happy hour hot spot that opened recently that I’m unaware of. But there are enough patrons here that I don’t stick out like a sore thumb while simultaneously maintaining a clear view of the main entrance and the entirety of the twenty-six-foot bar.
By the time I finish my drink, it’s almost four, and there’s still no sign of the other me.
I check her Instagram again.
She hasn’t posted anything since yesterday—a close-up of yesterday’s cappuccino complete with a foam heart—and then I scroll through her most recent photos. Every Thursday for the past nine weeks, she’s been coming here.
There are still two “happy” hours left, so I order another drink from a server who walks past, and then I scan the room before turning back to my laptop screen.
By the time my second drink is almost finished, it’s half past five. I milked this one as best I could, but I order a third—this one not for drinking, but as a prop, like my work setup. I needed just enough to take the edge off my anxiety while still keeping a clear head.
Pressure builds in my bladder, and I check the time. Only twenty-five minutes left until the nightly drink specials end, and if she’s not here yet, I’m beginning to think she has no intention of showing at all.
I’m seconds from packing up when the front door swings open, spilling a dash of twilight into the dark restaurant for half a second, and then in sashays a confident woman, finger combing her hair as she smiles at the bartender and takes the last spot on the left. Crossing her legs at the knee, she hooks the heel of a pointy-toed black stiletto on the lowest rung of the barstool.
They converse for a second as she drapes her Goyard bag over the back of her seat. A minute later he mixes her drink.
Rye whiskey.
Bitters.
Absinthe.
A sugar cube.
She’s having a Sazerac, too, which should come as no surprise to me given what I already know about her from her profile.
The bartender glances in my direction, probably wondering why it is that two women have come in on the same night and ordered the same very specific drink.
Someone once told me a Sazerac is a man’s drink. The taste is distinct, acquired. And maybe it’s a fair