Mojito Nights | Noches de Mojito
"Summer nights on a rooftop bar lead to more than just cocktails when two strangers keep meeting by coincidence"
Mojito Nights
Noches de Mojito
She ordered the same drink I did at the exact same moment.
"Mojito," we said in unison.
The bartender raised an eyebrow. "Two mojitos for the psychic twins."
"Great minds," she said.
"Or terrible ones," I replied.
The rooftop bar was my escape. Hot summer nights, city lights, mint and lime washing away my week.
"You come here often?" she asked.
"That's the worst line ever."
"It's also a genuine question."
"Every Thursday. My ritual."
"Mine too. How have I never seen you?"
We started meeting deliberately. Thursdays at 9 PM, same stools, same drinks.
"This is becoming a thing," she observed.
"Is that bad?"
"The opposite."
Her name was Elena. She worked in finance, hated it, and dreamed of opening a bar herself someday.
"Why don't you?" I asked.
"Fear. Money. The usual."
"But if you could?"
"I'd make it exactly like this. Rooftop, mojitos, people meeting strangers who become something more."
"Something more?"
She kissed me between cocktails, tasting of rum and mint and summer air.
"I've been wanting to do that for weeks," she admitted.
"Why'd you wait?"
"I wasn't sure you were interested."
"I've been here every Thursday for two months. I'm interested."
We started dating outside Thursdays. But Thursday remained sacred.
"Our anniversary," she called it.
"We're not married."
"Not yet. But when we are, Thursdays will still be ours."
She did open that bar eventually. I helped her build it—rooftop, mojitos, everything she'd dreamed.
"You made this happen," she said on opening night.
"You made it happen. I just believed in you."
"Same thing."
We married on a Thursday. On our rooftop. With mojitos for everyone.
"To chance meetings," I toasted.
"To Thursday nights," she added.
"To us."
Mojito nights—where summer drinks become lifetime toasts, and strangers become forever.