Marcus The Bartender.

“Would you like another drink, ma'am?” The bartender asks me as he stands across from me behind the bar.

Pushing my wine glass forward, “Yeah, one more should hit the spot.” I say quietly with a slight slur and hyper-aware that Tobias has been sitting in the corner booth for the last hour, cradling the same tumbler of whiskey on the rocks in his hand since his arrival.

I’m unsure if I feel elated that he has not approached me and given me the space I require with the comfort of knowing that he has tracked me down. Or, if I feel annoyed that he hasn’t come to me, grovelling at my feet and seeking forgiveness where it is due.

As the bartender slides my glass back across to me, he flings the hand towel he used to wipe the bar top with and rests his hands on his hips. “Rough day, was it?” He enquires, arching his brows.

“You can say that,” I reply, picking up my glass and touching the rim to my lips. “What gave you the vibe? Me sitting here all alone sipping on wine for the past four hour