A little more.

6 days ago
5 min read

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. “More.”

I’ve heard people ask for more money, more time, another round. She never specifies. Just “more,” like it’s a category.

“You had a long day?” I say.

“They’re all long,” she says. “That’s not the problem.”

“So what is?”

She takes another sip. Slower this time.

“I don’t feel enough.”

I lean on the bar.

“You’re here,” I say. “You’re drinking. You’re talking. That’s something.”

She shakes her head.

“It fades too fast. Everything does. You get something—attention, a win, a feeling—and before it settles, you want the next thing. Stronger. Louder.”

“That’s just people,” I say.

“No,” she says. “People pretend they don’t see it. I see it.”

I wipe the bar, buy myself a second.

“So what happens when you get ‘more’?” I ask.

She smiles, but it’s not happy.

“You adjust. It becomes normal. Then it’s not enough.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“It is.”

Silence for a minute. Just the room moving around us. Glasses, low music, a couple arguing near the door, and the owner looks at me with that look—get out of that corner, we are not making money, more money.

“You ever want it to stop?” I ask.

She finally looks at me.

“Yeah,” she says. “But stopping feels like less, so you replace it. You don’t stop. You just find something else that gives you more. More feeling, more distraction, more anything.”

“Until what?”

“Until you don’t feel anything at all,” she says. “And then you really start chasing.”

“You need more Negroni,” I say, building the second one.

She watches this time. Not the room—my hands.

“You ever get bored making the same drink?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “People change. Drink stays the same.”

She gives a half-smile. “That’s depressing.”

“It’s efficient,” I automatically respond.

I slide it over. She doesn’t touch it right away.

“You think I’m wrong?” she asks.

“About what?”

“Wanting more.”

I shake my head. “No. I think you’re honest.”

She leans back. “Same thing?”

“Not even close.”

She finally picks up the glass, turns it slightly like she’s checking the color.

“You don’t want more?” she says.

I take a second. Dry a glass that’s already dry.

“I used to think I didn’t,” I say. “That I was good with less. Keep it simple, keep it small. Fewer problems.”

“And?”

“And it takes work to stay there.”

She looks at me now.

“What do you mean?”

I lean on the bar again.

“Less… you have to sell it to yourself. Every day. You have to decide it’s enough. Convince yourself that the quiet is good, the routine is good, the same faces, the same nights. You have to believe it.”

“And more?”

“More is easy,” I say. “More doesn’t need convincing. It comes with noise. With people. With reactions. You don’t have to feel it on your own—other people do it for you.”

She nods slowly.

“Yeah,” she says. “Exactly.”

“It’s external,” I continue. “More money, more attention, more whatever—it’s measured outside of you. Someone else notices it. Validates it. You don’t have to sit with it alone and decide if it matters.”

She takes a sip.

“So less is… what, lonely?”

“Less is internal,” I say. “No audience. No feedback. Just you deciding if it’s enough. That’s harder than people admit.”

She laughs, but it’s quieter this time.

“So basically I picked the easier option.”

“I didn’t say easier,” I say. “I said immediate.”

She points at me with the glass.

“That’s worse.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Usually is.”

She looks around the bar. Full now. Energy picked up. A couple of people wave at me, I nod back, and stay where I am; the owner is not happy about that.

“You like this?” she asks. “All this… people, noise, attention?”

I looked around.

“It’s part of the job,” I say.

“That’s not what I asked.”

I think about it.

“I like that I don’t have to look too hard at anything in here,” I say. “Everything is moving. You don’t sit still long enough to question it.”

“And when it’s empty?”

I take a second.

“That’s when the work starts.”

She finishes half the drink in one go.

“See?” she says. “More is better.”

“For a while.”

She sets the glass down harder than she needs to.

“What’s the alternative then?”

I pick up the bar towel again.

“There isn’t one clean answer,” I say. “You either learn how to sit with less… or you keep upgrading your version of more.”

“And you?” she asks.

I look at her, then at the glass.

“I’m somewhere in between,” I say. “Which is probably the worst place to be.”

She smiles.

“Yeah,” she says. “No commitment.”

“Or too much awareness.”

She taps the bar twice.

“Make me another one,” she says.

“You sure?” she nods.

“If I’m going to feel more, I might as well commit to it tonight.”

I grab the mixing glass again.

Ice, gin, Campari, vermouth, same drink.

But now I’m thinking about it differently.

“You ever notice,” I say, not looking up yet, “that ‘more’ is never about right now?”

She doesn’t answer. She’s listening.

“It’s always the next thing,” I continue. “Next drink, next win, next feeling. It’s never this one, right here.”

I strain the drink, drop the peel, slide it over.

“You can’t say ‘more’ and mean the present,” I say. “It’s built against it. Against here and now.”

She looks at the glass, then at me.

“So what, now is enough?” she says.

“It has to be,” I say. “Otherwise you’re always chasing something that doesn’t exist yet.”

She takes a sip. Slower this time.

“Feels small,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “Because it’s yours.”

She looks at me.

“More feels bigger.”

“Because it involves everything else,” I say. “People, reactions, movement. That’s why it’s loud.”

“And here and now?”

“It’s quiet,” I say. “No audience. No next step. Just this.”

She looks down at the glass again.

“For something so simple,” she says, “it’s hard to stay in it.”

“That’s the part nobody talks about,” I say. “It takes more discipline to stay than to chase.”

She laughs once.

“So now less is harder, more is easier, and now is enough.”

“I’m not selling anything,” I say. “Just telling you how it plays out.”

She finishes the drink more slowly than the others.

The room is still loud. Orders are coming in. Someone calls my name from the other side. The owner brings a few dirty glasses, almost in front of her. I thank him and pass him the towel to clean the high top. He looks back, shocked. He always does that when I ask for more. He did it earlier today when I asked for more money. Same face.

I don’t move yet.

“You think I can do it?” she asks.

“Do what?”

“Stay here,” she says, tapping the bar. “Don't jump to the next thing.”

I think about it.

“Maybe,” I say. “But it’s not going to feel like more.”

She nods.

“That’s the problem.”

“Or the point.”

She exhales, leans back, and looks around like she’s seeing the room for the first time.