Wembley Wine
"After England's World Cup loss, bartender Keisha consoles devastated fan Danny with rum, conversation, and a private demonstration of how Caribbean women handle defeat."
England lost on penalties. Again. The pub emptied except for Danny, face in hands.
"Another round, or yuh calling it?"
He looked up. The bartender was thick and beautiful, dark skin glowing in the low light, sympathy in her eyes.
"How do you handle it?"
"Jamaica nuh make it to World Cup." She poured rum. "Mi handle it by not caring about football."
Despite everything, he laughed.
She closed early, just them at the bar. More rum. More talk. Her name was Keisha, she'd bought the pub from an old man who had no children, and she'd never seen anyone look so devastated over a game.
"Is not just the game," he admitted. "It's everything. Job's gone. Girlfriend's gone. Just wanted one win."
"Yuh got one win."
"What?"
"Yuh sitting with mi." She smiled. "That's a win."
He didn't know who kissed whom first. Just that her lips tasted like rum and promise, and her thick body felt like home.
"Mi don't usually—" she started.
"Neither do I."
"Good. Then we both doing something special."
On the bar. Against the taps. In the back room on the beer kegs. She showed him what Jamaican women did with defeat—turned it into victory.
"Yes! Danny! Right there!"
Her thick thighs wrapped around him, her moans mixing with the distant sound of disappointed fans going home.
"Make mi forget everything except yuh!"
He made her forget. She made him forget. Everything except each other.
"Stay," she said after. "Help mi open tomorrow."
"I don't have bartending experience."
"Yuh have other skills." She kissed him slow. "We work on the rest."
Danny pours pints now at Keisha's pub. England lost again at the next World Cup.
He barely noticed.
He'd already won.
Wembley's best-kept secret.
The loss that became everything.