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Becca: Yep. Till midnight.

Tommy: Mind if I stop by?

Becca: It's a free country.

Tommy: I was thinking of bringing my brother with me.

Becca: You have a brother?

That’s what I get for not asking personal questions. How much does Tommy know about me? Less than I know about him for sure. When you ask those kinds of questions you open up the floor for them to ask them back. Then the lies and evasion start, and Tommy deserves better than that. But even thinking about opening up to him, or anyone else, puts a vise around my chest that makes it hard to breathe.

Tommy: Yes. I never told you about him?

Becca: Duh, no. If you had, I wouldn't be asking, would I?

Tommy: LOL. We'll stop by. I think you'll like him. He's a nice guy.

My somewhat rude words never faze him.

Becca: Whatever you say, Tommy boy.

Tommy: See you in a few.

I look at the time on my phone. Eleven PM.

Three locals sit at one end of the long and scarred dark, wood bar top. They're here nearly every night, always in the same spot. I swear those stools are the exact reverse shape of their asses. They're in their late forties or early fifties, and based on their conversations and bitching about their wives, they come here to escape the nagging they get at home.

They try to pull me into their conversations, asking for my opinion on this or that or to settle an argument, and I play my part well. Smile, serve their beers ice cold, replenish the bowls of stale pretzels with more stale pretzels, but for the most part I try to stay out of their conversations. They’re harmless. But this is my job, I’m not here to socialize.

It's only me tending the bar right now. The owner, Gus, is out back. He keeps out of the way most of the time, which works just fine for me. The lights around the aged room are dimmed, not for ambience, but to hide the dirt and neglect that has accumulated over decades of not updating the space or not caring enough about it. And because Gus is a cheap bastard who likes to cut corners everywhere he can. But he doesn't get on my back or demand much of me, and I don't have to share the tips with anyone. Also, he doesn't expect me to be warm and fuzzy to the customers.

The only thing Gus really asks of me is to wear a black T-shirt with the bar name and logo. The word Players, with two dice hanging from the letter Y. I have no idea why. The only game in the place is darts. The board sits on the back wall, and every time someone goes to the bathroom, they risk getting hit by a flying dart. The whole setup is a lawsuit waiting to happen.

“Becca?” One of the regulars calls me, and I step up to their corner. Their glasses are half full still, so this is not a call for a refill.

“You're a woman. We're trying to understand. Our wives are always so cranky. Why do women get like that?”

It's his fourth beer of the night, and Joe is the smallest of them, no more than one hundred thirty-five pounds on his skinny frame. The alcohol makes his words slur a bit.

I lean into my side of the counter, like I'm about to share a secret. All three of them lean closer to me. Their attention is on my face, expectant, hopeful even. As if I alone hold the Holy Grail answer they’re looking for.

“Let me ask you a question first, Joe.”

He nods, eager.

“When was the last time you gave your wife an orgasm?”

His mouth opens and closes in a perfect imitation of a fish. No sounds come out, but I half expect air bubbles to float out of it. The other men snicker.

“And the same question goes for both of you.” I point at his two friends. “You want to know why your wives are cranky all the time? Maybe it's because they haven't gotten laid properly in years.”

The snickers stop, and all three of them avert their gazes.

“If you spent half of the time you waste here every night bullshitting and complaining about your women on actually paying attention to them, I guarantee they would not be cranky.”

I lower my voice, lean in a few inches more. Their eyes are back on me.

“You want a happy woman at home? Fuck her. Fuck her often, and fuck her well.”