The bartender doesn't even have to look at what she's doing anymore. Every day is exactly the same, and every drink is a stereotype: Long Island ice tea for the pathetic bitch, vodka for the arrogant bitch, wine for the cocky bitch, mint julep for the sneaky bitch, pina colada for the dumb bitch. She's learned a lot in the three years since she threw her sneakers into the back of the closet and locked the door. She pays only the barest attention, just enough to measure ingredients and keep herself from subconsciously reaching for the rat poison; yeah, killing the bitches might make her feel better, but she won't be responsible if half a dozen blondes keel over across the country or the world. There might not be much difference between death and whatever this is, but if there's a slim chance, she doesn't want to end it.

Of course she's on tonight. Dan knows what Indiana means to her, or at least what it used to mean. So she slides the bitches' drinks down the bar for service, cleans and dries the clean and dry glasses, straightens things that are already straight, and she doesn't look down, just up at the poster from the last good year, before greed tore them apart. And she waits.

The door opens on a crisply clear night, bringing with it a wash of warm air and four Indiana players. She checks their heights automatically; one's way too short, one's way too tall, but the other two are in the right range, and one's even wearing a headband. She reaches under the bar for the jukebox override and grins when the song she requested earlier replaces the Biggie that's been blasting; her grin only widens when the smug bitch turns to glare at her for turning off her song. But her smile fades when she looks back at the four Indiana players. A couple of them are tapping their toes to the beat. The short one's the first to see on the screen what's playing, nudging the one in the headband to point out the track: "Tupelo Honey", Van Morrison. From their matching smiles, two questions are answered. She knows now which one of them will come and make improvised conversation with her for their drinks.

She's been trying to learn sign language, but it's been slow going and she only knows a few basics for her job: drink, stronger drink, make me forget. But that's enough for her to interpret when Tamika comes to the bar; this time, it's three rounds of strong and one of make me forget, ordered with an anguished face and unsteady hands. She focuses on her work, narrowing her world to glasses and bottles so she can imagine another face across the bar. She should be past this by now. It's been three years since everything went to hell in a handbasket, after all.

She puts the drinks on a tray for Tamika to take back out to the others. She doesn't let go of the last glass quickly enough. Their hands touch, their eyes meet, and for a moment the old electricity crackles between them. Tamika's head tilts towards the bone-jarring beats on the dance floor, and the moment ends with the beautiful, wistful smile on another's face. She has to remember- she can't not remember- that this Tamika is not hers. She shakes her head and rubs her fingers together in the universal sign for money, makes change from the twenties that Tamika drops on the bar, and before Tamika turns to go, flashes one of the few other signs she knows, the first one she learned.

"I love you."