London.
In the first few months, he drank the Negroni fast. Like medicine. Coat still on half the time. Phone face down next to the glass, vibrating every few minutes like somebody somewhere always needed something from him. He lived in London, but did not properly live. Survived there elegantly. He traveled every week. Back and forth constantly. London to somewhere else, then back again before the city had time to miss him. Still, somehow, he looked settled, which always fascinated
Stefanos Oungrinis
4 min read
A little more.
What do you want? I ask her with that aggressive approach that she always finds funny. “I want to feel more. And a Negroni,” she says. I will make the second one, and that should be enough. I built it slowly. Ice first. You hear it crack. Then gin, Campari, vermouth. Stir, orange peel, twist, drop. Slide it over. She takes a sip like she’s checking if it still works. “What do you want?” I ask. She doesn’t even look at me. “More.” “More what?” She moves her shoulders slightly.
Stefanos Oungrinis
5 min read
A kid for a minute.
“I just want to be a kid for a minute,” she said, already halfway into her second Negroni. That’s what everyone wants. We spend most of our lives running, growing, chasing success and covering responsibilities, paying for needs that half the time weren’t even ours to begin with. Everyone’s sprinting somewhere. But the strange thing is that when people meet each other, we suddenly act like none of that is happening. We put the masks back on — successful, stable, in control. Li
Stefanos Oungrinis
2 min read
Un po’ di mare e tutto passa.
He had been coming all summer, not every night, but enough that the bar slowly started to feel like it belonged to him too. Mario. Tall, late sixties. White linen shirt, always a little wrinkled — like he had slept in it, or like he simply didn’t care enough to iron it. Italian. Naples , he told me that the first night, a few years ago. And then again many nights after, like it mattered. “I live in Naples,” he would say, lifting his glass. As if Naples were not a place, but a
Stefanos Oungrinis
2 min read
The universe.
She always sits in the same seat — second from the end, where you can see the door without looking like you’re waiting for someone. She orders a Negroni immediately. The decision is clear. There’s a small exhale right after, almost unnoticeable, but it’s there. Not from the drink, from the choosing. From committing to something without second-guessing. For ninety seconds, she’s a person who knows what she wants. I’ve known her for a few years now. She keeps coming back, talki
Stefanos Oungrinis
2 min read
I Am With You. I Am Not Like You.
She said it like it was a boundary. “I’m with you. I never said I’m like you.” Then she stood up and went to the restroom. He looked at me, not for advice, but for permission to be offended. That’s what men do when their ego gets scratched. They scan the room like someone might hand them a manual titled: How To React Without Looking Small. He expected judgment, nod, some silent confirmation that he was right. I lifted my glass. “That’s feeling, and love is a feeling too.” He
Stefanos Oungrinis
2 min read
Gossip.
They always come early for the first check-in. Not to see who’s here, to see who isn’t. That’s the real list; they scan empty stools and missing faces like detectives at a crime scene. Because nothing like knowing someone is having fun without you, and nothing brings peace like confirming they’re not. If table five is empty, Why isn’t Kostas here? If the corner stool is free, Did Eleni go somewhere better? Fun elsewhere is dangerous. Every bar has one. Every. Single. Bar. The
Stefanos Oungrinis
2 min read
