Page 59 of Heart So Hollow

He pulls a whiskey tumbler out from beneath the bar and sets it in front of Bowen, then he turns and hikes his leg up to hoist himself up onto the back counter. He strolls along the countertop and plucks a bottle of Weller from one of the shelves. He hops back down, pours three fingers worth into the glass, and slides it in front of Bowen.

“But you,” Joaquín turns back to me and taps his finger on the bar top, “you’ve got something dark going on.”

His comment catches me off-guard and I watch in silence as he pushes off the edge of the bar and walks to the far end where he disappears through a heavy, wooden door. Slowly, I turn to Bowen, settled back in his chair, his arm resting across the back of mine. He shrugs and takes a sip of his whiskey, totally unconcerned.

This is weird.

Eventually, Joaquín returns and sets a dark bottle of wine in front of me, “You’re a Malbec girl,” he states, planting his palms on either side of the bottle, “pretty on the outside, but intense and full-bodied, with notes of black cherry and a smoky finish.” He pauses and then winks at me, “Spooky.”

I’m at a loss for words, unsure how to interpret anything that’s happening. I blink, staring at Joaquín, and then look over my shoulder at Bowen. The only thing stranger than being told I’m full-bodied and spooky by a bartender I just met is that Bowen looks completely unperturbed by any of it. In fact, he looks downright entertained.

“I’m sorry—what?” I laugh, peering at Joaquín.

Joaquín chuckles and reaches beneath the bar, pulling out a wide-bowled glass and setting it down next to the wine bottle.

He picks up the bottle and begins unscrewing the cork, “Want to hear some spooky stories about this place?”

“Of course,” I lean forward, intrigued.

“Alright, before this was a Mexican restaurant, it used to be a steakhouse with a huge wine collection.” He points to the redwood beams behind him, “Massive. Anyway, one of the servers walked into the dining room, carrying an entire baguette and saucer of olive oil. She looked up and saw a man hanging by his neck above the bar.”

My eyebrows shoot up, “For real?”

“Oh yeah,” Joaquín nods, “right up there, from one of the beams. She freaks out, drops everything—waves of olive oil all over the floor. But then he disappeared…” he pauses suspensefully, “or maybe no one else could see him except her.”

“OK, that’s terrifying,” I laugh.

“That one’s creepy,” Joaquín waves his hand dismissively, “but this one is good,” he says while rubbing his hands together dramatically. “One night, a couple was sitting here at the bar and they watched a bottle fly off the top shelf and land upright on the bar.” He slams his palm down on the bar top, making me flinch, “It didn’t bounce, it didn’t wobble, it didn’t break, it just landed upright with a bang.”

“No way,” I chuckle, leaning back in my chair.

Joaquín pops the cork out of the Malbec bottle and tilts the glass, pouring until it’s a third full. Then he slides the glass toward me.

“Taste it,” he thrusts his finger at me, “and tell me it’s not your favorite!”

Joaquín is right. Just like he said, the wine is thick, fruity, and smoky. It tastes so good, I could down the entire glass right there.

“This is fucking amazing.”

Joaquín lets out a whoop of laughter and leans back against the redwood beams. I glance at Bowen and see he’s laughing to himself, his white teeth gleaming as the light hits his face just right.

Joaquín narrows his eyes, “You know why?”

From the look on his face, I just know he’s about to say something shocking. I shake my head, smiling with anticipation.

He nods to the top of the shelves, “Because that bottle fell from that shelf up there.”

My eyes moved from Joaquín, to the glass, then back to Joaquín, “No!” I exclaim in astonishment.

“Well,” he gives a shrug, “it was one of four or five on the same shelf, but it might’ve been the one.”

It doesn’t matter, I’m still stunned, absolutely dumbfounded I might be drinking wine from a haunted bottle. Is the wine haunted? Am I drinking ghosts? I have no idea what to say.

“But,” I pause, my mind racing, “but, how did you know I like spooky things?”

“Maybe I’m just that good,” he winks at me and taps the bar top, “let me know if you need anything else.” He grins and, in an instant, he’s halfway across the bar, leaving Bowen to his whiskey and me to my haunted wine.

I jerk my head around, my mouth ajar, “What just happened?”

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