His name was Tim. Maybe not Tim, but Tom. Maybe it translated to that. I don’t remember beyond the T it started with. Names weren’t all that important to me since it was better to not name it anyway.

T worked as the bartender in the hotel bar. Drink slinger. Slung them out to put them down. Had the smile to flash a tip out of you. The kind where you knew he saw his reflection in your eyes and his ownership owned. He had that attractive money magnet. Attractive in the way of men whom you see first amongst crowds of other men. I remember that about T and I remember how when it was me and T in the bar it felt like it was only us there and everyone else was simply a memory of those who had been before and he had his sweat pooled at the shoulder blade which ran in rivulets underneath his shirt when we went to work.

We had a working relationship. He worked at the bar. I drank at the bar. This is how we met. After the bar we went up and went to work. The next day came and then the next month and then the next year. It worked until it didn’t. It worked until I came back and he didn’t work there anymore.

It’s best to not give things names for a heart at work is a working heart