Tequila Sunrise | Amanecer de Tequila
"A bartender and her most loyal customer discover that the best drinks come with the strongest connections"
Tequila Sunrise
Amanecer de Tequila
She poured tequila like she was performing surgery—precise, deliberate, beautiful.
"Otro?" she asked, her eyebrow raised. Another?
"You keep pouring, I'll keep drinking."
"Famous last words." But she poured anyway, and I watched her hands move, wondering what else they were capable of.
Gabriela had been bartending at El Coyote for five years. I'd been drinking here for three. Somewhere along the way, she'd stopped being just my bartender and had become the reason I showed up.
"Tough day?" she asked, sliding the glass toward me.
"Always."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not particularly." I knocked back the tequila. "I'd rather watch you work."
"That's either creepy or romantic." She grabbed another bottle. "I haven't decided which."
"Let me know when you figure it out."
The bar emptied around midnight, leaving just me and a couple in the corner too drunk to notice closing time.
"You're always the last one here," Gabriela said, wiping down the counter.
"You're always worth waiting for."
She stopped mid-wipe. "Be careful, papi. I might start to think you mean that."
"What if I do?"
The couple stumbled out, and suddenly we were alone. The neon signs cast red and blue shadows across her face as she leaned against the back bar.
"Then we'd have a problem."
"Why a problem?"
"Because I have rules." She ticked them off on her fingers. "No dating customers. No mixing business with pleasure. No falling for men who drink away their problems instead of solving them."
"What if I told you I only come here for you?"
"I'd say you're a liar."
"What if I proved it?" I stood, walking around the bar until I was behind it with her. Breaking rules felt good. "What if I stopped drinking right now and never had another drop?"
"You wouldn't."
"Watch me."
I pushed the glass away. She stared at me like I'd grown a second head.
"You're serious."
"As a heart attack." I stepped closer. "I don't need the tequila, Gabriela. I never did. I just needed an excuse to see you."
"That's..." She swallowed. "That's a lot."
"Too much?"
"Ask me again after closing."
She handed me a mop. For the next hour, I cleaned floors while she counted tips and restocked bottles. It was strangely intimate—working in silence, moving around each other like we'd done it a thousand times.
"All done," she said finally, locking the register. "Now we can talk."
"I'd rather not talk."
"Dangerous words." But she was smiling, closing the distance between us. "What would you rather do?"
"Let me show you."
I kissed her against the bar—the same bar where she'd served me hundreds of drinks, where I'd watched her and wanted her and never dared to reach. Her mouth tasted like lime and possibility.
"You're breaking my rules," she gasped.
"All of them?"
"Every single one."
She pulled me toward the back room—the office where she did paperwork and changed between shifts. There was a couch there, leather and worn, and she pushed me onto it.
"If we do this," she said, straddling me, "everything changes."
"I'm counting on it."
She kissed me harder, hands working at my shirt while I slid the strap of her tank top down her shoulder. Her skin was warm, soft, tasting of salt and citrus.
"I've wanted this for three years," I admitted.
"I've wanted it longer." She ground against me. "Watching you watch me every night. Wondering what you were thinking."
"This. I was thinking this."
We made love in the back room of El Coyote while the neon sign buzzed outside. She was fierce, demanding, taking what she wanted and giving everything in return.
"Más," she demanded. More.
"Como quieras, mi reina." However you want, my queen.
"I want everything."
"Then take it. Take all of it."
She did—claiming me as thoroughly as I claimed her.
After, she lay against my chest on the cramped couch, tracing patterns on my stomach.
"So," she said. "No more tequila?"
"Not unless you're pouring it."
"I'm always pouring it. It's my job."
"Then I'll watch you pour without drinking." I kissed her hair. "I meant what I said. You're the addiction, not the alcohol."
"That's either beautiful or concerning."
"Both. Like you."
She laughed, and it was the best sound I'd ever heard in this bar. Better than the music, better than the clinking glasses, better than anything.
"We're going to have to figure out new rules," she said.
"How about: I take you on a real date?"
"That's a good start."
"And I cook you dinner at my place?"
"Better."
"And I tell you every day how beautiful you are until you believe me?"
She pulled back to look at me. "You think I don't believe you?"
"I think you've spent five years having drunk men tell you you're pretty. I want to spend the next fifty telling you sober."
Her eyes glistened. "That's..."
"Too much again?"
"Just right." She kissed me softly. "Now take me home and show me what fifty years looks like."
I did. We started that night and never stopped.
I still go to El Coyote, but now I sit at the end of the bar and drink water while my wife works her magic.
"Otro?" she asks with that same eyebrow raise.
"You keep pouring, I'll keep drinking."
"Water again?"
"The view's better sober."
She leans across the bar to kiss me, and the regulars whistle and cheer. My wife. My bartender. My everything.
Tequila sunrise never tasted so sweet.