The first thing Josie thought—He looks like Hemingway.

   The second thing—He reminds me of my grandfather.

   Knowing that Sir James (which was how he had introduced himself with a dramatic flourish—I, my dear, am Sir James) had had enough, Josie avoided making eye contact. She shifted her attention to the rack of glasses set near the sink.

   With a marksman’s precision, Sir James caught Josie’s eye in the mirror posted on the wall behind the bar.

   My dear, excuse me … may I have another drink?

   Josie had worked as a bartender for almost ten years, and knew the Politeness Ploy well: speak softly, in a measured tone of kindness and restraint, so as to divert the bartender’s attention away from your state of inebriation. Unfortunately, for Sir James, while his tone was polite, his words were thick and soupy.

   Continuing to work a rag around the rim of a glass, Josie’s gaze met Sir James’s in the mirror, and she said—Sorry, Sir James, I can’t serve you anymore alcohol. Would you like a Coke or iced tea … or something to eat?

   Sir James’s features pinched tightly, and he wrinkled his nose as if Josie’s suggestions smelled really bad. He leaned his weight into the bar and splayed his elbows on the oak counter. His head was slightly bowed, chin bucking toward his throat, eye more than halfway closed. He remained totemically fixed in this position, and Josie wondered if he had fallen asleep or was tangled in thought. Then, as if an alarm had suddenly gone off, Sir James snapped to attention, stiffening his posture, eyes widening, his index finger shooting up like a flare-signal, and in fuzzy faraway voice, asked—May I have another, my dear?

    Josie turned and briefly locked eyes with Sir James: his look cueing heightened desperation.

   In a firm and parental tone—That’s all for tonight, Sir James. You’ve had enough. Okay?

   Sir James smiled, revealing nicotine-stained teeth—No, my dear, it’s not okay.

   He paused, a leaden slug of a pause. Josie continued wiping the glass in her hand.

   But, Sir James went on, it’s okay. It’s not okay, but it’s okay.

   Josie nodded and issued a slight smile. Some of the other female bartenders Josie had worked with never smiled after a certain time of night. Smiling after a certain hour at certain bars was too risky. Josie thought this rule too severe and had never adopted it.

   Sir James rocked back and forth on his stool as if being tugged at by phantom hands. Then he stopped tottering and began tapping out an uneven rhythm on the counter with his fingertips.

   Josie stole glances at him in the mirror. The snow white beard like a winter animal covering most of his face. The blue eyes, loose and jiggly, like two small fish swimming in separate tanks. The flush-pinkness of his complexion threaded by broken blue veins.

   Sir James stopped drumming on the counter, and said—Do you want to know why it’s not okay, Jenny?

   Josie.

   Sorry, my dear … Josie. Do you want to know why it’s not okay, Josie?

   Sir James paused, giving Josie a chance to ask why. Josie turned to face him but said nothing.    

   Again Sir James raised his index finger, high and administrative, and said—It’s not okay because the giants will be back later. It’s okay for now, but later when the giants return and I’m not ready for them … it won’t be okay. Two things I’ve learned: it’s never enough and they always come back.

   With that statement, Sir James flattened his palms on the counter, rose from his stool, and strode out of the bar without looking back. It all happened in one unbroken motion, what could be termed a graceful exit.

   Josie looked at the clock: 12:26. She wondered if she had done the right thing in not giving him another. She also wondered at what time the giants would return.

   He could be my grandfather, Josie thought, and the distance between that and he is my grandfather was not as far as she had imagined.