It was 2am and the man appeared at the door just as Marianne switched the sign from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’.

She rolled her eyes. ‘We’re closed,’ she said, pointing to the sign.

The man held up his index finger. He was lit by the faint glow of the neon ‘Carl’s Diner’ sign.

‘Just one drink.’ he said. He sounded sober enough. ‘Just one. Come on. Please. I’ve just landed here.’

‘If he wants a drink, let him in,’ Carl called from behind Marianne. He was at the bar counting the night’s poor takings. ‘Christ, we can’t afford to be turning customers away.’

‘But we’re closed,’ Marianne said, her tone whiny. She’d been working since 11am and wanted nothing more than to get into bed. Her gap year was turning into more work than she’d left behind in London.

‘We’re still here, aren’t we?’ Carl said, stuffing a thin roll of $10 bills into his wallet. ‘Let him in.’

Grudgingly, Marianne opened the door.

The man was younger than she’d thought – in his mid-twenties perhaps – and had a rucksack on his back. His dark hair was no longer than his stubble and his biceps strained against the sleeves of his polo shirt. Marianne felt her resolve soften.

He took a seat at the bar and ordered a Hendricks on the rocks, insisting she have one too.

‘On account of staying late for me,’ he said, and she noticed that he had a British accent.

As she turned to fix the drinks, she glanced in the mirror behind the bar and saw that he was looking at her. Not in the sleazy way that most of Carl’s regulars did – their bleary gaze on a downward diagonal – but at her face. It felt good to be looked at like that and she wished she was wearing anything other than these tatty jeans and faded ‘Carl’s Diner’ t-shirt. But wasn’t that just the way?

She handed him his drink and he raised his glass.

‘To freedom,’ he said.

Marianne tapped her glass against his. It seemed as good a toast as any.

Carl, who had made his way behind the bar, cleared his throat.

‘I’m turning in,’ he said to Marianne. ‘Call me if you have any trouble, you hear?’ He narrowed his eyes at the man on the other side of the bar and pointed a finger. ‘I never forget a face.’

When he’d gone, the man smiled. ‘Nice boss.’

‘His bark’s worse than his bite.’

‘I’m Joe, by the way.’

‘Marianne.’

‘I’ve never met a Marianne.’

She groaned. ‘Oh, please. Don’t give me that. I work in a bar.’

He looked her in the eye. ‘You’re very cynical.’

‘You’re very clichéd.’

Joe hung his head in mock defeat. ‘Touche.’

There was an awkward silence in which Marianne cursed herself for being so caustic. An attractive man was flirting with her and she was being as receptive as broken glass. Why the hell did she always play the ice queen act?

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long day.’

‘And I came in just as you were closing up. Ain’t that just the damndest thing,’ he added in an American accent.
Marianne smiled and felt herself relax. There was something about him that put her at ease. She leant back against the fridge and slipped her hand into her jeans pocket.

‘How long have you been out here?’ he asked.

‘Three months,’ she said. ‘And you?’

‘Just got here.’

Marianne glanced at the rucksack he’d placed on the stool beside him. ‘Literally?’

‘Literally. I slept on the flight from Singapore.’

He gulped down the last of his whisky and the ice rattled in the glass.

‘Can I get another?’ he asked.

‘Sure.’

Two minutes later the glass was empty.

‘Are you okay?’ Marianne asked.

‘Fine.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

A trickle of sweat crept down Joe’s forehead. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

‘I’m AWOL,’ he said.

‘AWOL?’

‘I was in the army.’ He laughed a laugh that wasn’t real.

‘Well, I’m still in the army, but they don’t know where I am. And they’re not going to be happy about it.’

‘What will they do?’

He shrugged. ‘They could arrest me when I go back to the UK. If I go back.’ He picked at the edge of a battered beer mat. ‘Can we sit down?’

Marianne came round from behind the bar and they sat at a table by the window.

‘I’m sorry,’ Joe said. ‘You probably want to go home. You don’t need this.’

‘It’s fine,’ she said.

And it was. It had been a long time since she’d had a proper conversation with anyone. Most of her interaction with people was limited to bar talk and to interact about something other than alcohol was a relief.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

Joe didn't look at her, his attention fixed on the Formica table between them. Time seemed to pass at half its usual speed.

‘Have you ever seen someone die?’ he said at last.

Marianne blinked. It had been a year, but in an instant she could smell the bleached corridors of the hospital, could hear the steady beep-beep-beep of her mother’s life support machine.

She nodded.

‘I’m sorry,’ Joe said. His voice sounded distant.

‘It’s fine,’ Marianne said and heard her voice crack.

‘I didn't mean to upset you.’

He reached across the table and placed his hand on hers.
She crumpled into tears at the touch. The pain was still so raw.

When Joe slid his chair beside hers, she let him wrap his arm around her shoulders and pull her close. His grip was strong and he smelt of musky cologne: manly, comforting.
She let herself cry until she had no tears left.

When she sat up, she saw from his glassy eyes that he had been crying too.

He smiled weakly and said, ‘Who wants to go first?’

They talked until 6am and were married two years later.