Bar wisdom grows bold after midnight.

He said, everybody cheats. Everybody.

Why would he think that? Ordinary thoughts during a sober moment are nothing more alluring than scrap paper. To a man with whiskey lipstick or rouged by bourbon, such thoughts begin to sparkle. A simple scrap of folded paper carrying a forgotten shopping list shimmers with secrets…

Back to the cheater. I see he really likes himself, and he wants me to like him too. A wily smile pulls his lips and he rolls up a sleeve. Look at these tattoos, he said. They've been in magazines! See my nose? It's been broken a dozen times. I played hockey. I played professional hockey.

Ah, I say.

Come here, feel my nose!

Seriously? I ask him.

Yes. Come here. Come sit by me.

I am working!

With a damp rag and spray bottle, I swipe along the bar erasing sticky rings left by emptied shot glasses or from vodka and tonic sloshing over the rim. Crunching underfoot are peanut shells shells shells broken cigarettes bottle caps receipts, and whatever else falls from pockets as the clientele collectively leans back to relax at the bar and forget about grocery shopping car repairs household chores, and push from mind the 9 - 5 workload. Booze soothed is the notion to just let it all fall to the cold slate floor. I sweep it all away after closing time. All gone.

At home I tell Lily the funny silly things.

She is wrapped up in a little doggy bundle under the computer desk with her nose under her tail. Lily, they're funny.

Cheater was throwing it all at me, Lily.

Look at my hands, he said. They're big hands, they work hard.

Standing quietly with the rag and bottle gripped in front of me, I keep quiet.

Look!

I look.

Seeing my silver jewelry, he reaches for the rings and bracelets. With my silver knots and delicate twists between his fingers, he remembers himself again.

I have jewelry, too. I really look good in it. All dressed up. He is holding my hands and wrists pretending to look at the jewelry. Maybe he thinks I am a sucker for this and I'll crawl into his lap.

If I were Lily, I would crawl into his lap.

Why do you think everybody cheats, I ask.

Don't they?

No.

C'mon, your guy is in Maine, he said.

I choose silence. I decide he is sobering up some. We'll leave soon.

If Lily were here, I would ask her to translate the tones of voice and body language. I know her answer. He is saying, come home with me, come home with me!

Nope, and I did not bother to waste an answer on drunken and self-impressed ears.