Last Call, abridged

He calls me darlin. And angel, and pumpkin.

He calls everyone darlin, but his tongue snaps the roof of his mouth a little differently, when he says it to me.

We met in a bar. It's where I've met most of my men. But the night I met him, my past evaporated. The bar was empty. It was a grand opening, unadvertised and failed.

But not for us.

That night, I wore a typical first date getup. Something grown up. With a veil of confidence, stating "I know what I want," laced with some, "Don't worry, I'm a sure thing."

I ordered a manhattan, extra sweet. A splash of maraschino cherry juice, to remind me of my childhood.

He doesn't drink much, he has an ulcer. But that night he ordered scotch on the rocks. I guess he too was playing a part.

I've worn nothing but torn flannel and heavy eyeliner since that first night. And I almost always start with draft beer now.

He did get lucky that night, but that "luck" has since unfolded into a friendship birthed outside of time. His soul welcomed mine back from before time. Before creation. Where it belongs.

And, darlin, he is now and always will be my angel--guarding and walking with me--into the end of time and beyond.