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A bartender
Denver. Twenty twenty-five. October twentieth.

Bar mirrors are dangerous. People pour their stories into them along with the drinks.

Tonight a man raised a glass. I poured whiskey. He nodded at the mirror. Said, “She’s prettier when she smiles.”

Problem is, I wasn’t smiling. The reflection was.

He winked at her. She winked back.

I dropped the glass. Shards everywhere, customers yelling. I apologized, cleaned up, kept moving. But the mirror never cracked. And she kept smiling at me, even when my mouth was set like stone.