After driving his cab long into the evening, Drabowski always stops off at Lita’s Place for a pick-me-up, and he always orders the same thing, not that he likes Bushmills all that much, but Lita, his favorite barmaid in all the world, often wears short skirts.

Lita’s Grandpop named the place after her—well, renamed it after her the day she was born, thirty-eight years ago. Lita’s been running the place for sixteen years now, ever since she graduated college and Grandpop retired to Florida. She is smart enough to know that her five-foot-two won’t reach the top shelf without a little something to stand on, not if she doesn’t want her panties to show, and so she has a little box back behind the bar. But she is also smart enough to know that patrons are more likely to order top-shelf if they get a little extra something for their money. Lita may have a boyish ass, but it is a top-shelf boyish ass.

Lita’s closes at two. Naturally, Drabowski watches carefully when she puts the bottle back on the top shelf. She never uses the little box after hours, not in Drabowski’s experience. Today, not only is Lita wearing that short red skirt, she’s wearing no panties. Boyish ass, honey pot pussy.

“Tough day?” Lita asks after returning to the bar, that cheery, impish smile, as always, lifting Drabowski’s spirits, forcing him to smile in return. “That’s my guy,” she says, tousling his hair, not that there’s much to tousle these days. “Shall we fuck here or hold off till we get home?”

Something about the way Lita says fuck ... Drabowski knows he has to have her right here, right now.