Act like you know.

2:44

He’d been coming in for a while — never the same time but always that same half-smile. He’d seen enough, and he’d learned to take it lightly. He laughed easily — life wasn’t funny, but it was easier that way.

I reached for the Carpano Antica. He liked that bottle — dark glass, heavy shoulders, cream label with the messy red script and wax seal. Old-world confidence. It’s the kind of bottle that makes you slow down for a second; you don’t rush a drink that starts with something like that.

He watched the ritual — gin first, then Campari, then that rich, herbal swirl from the Carpano. “You treat that bottle better than most people treat each other,” he joked.“Some things deserve respect,” I said.

I asked how things were going.

“Still a circus,” he said. “But I’m finally enjoying the clown part.”

He’d just come back from London. “Finance week,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Five days of suits, spreadsheets, and fake smiles. Have you ever seen twelve people argue over lunch for forty minutes and then all order Caesar salads? That’s my client base.” He laughed, took a sip.

“They talk in acronyms, like it’s some secret language. ROI, KPI, EBITDA — sounds like a bad techno song. I say stuff like ‘teamwork’ or ‘growth,’ and everyone acts like I said something innovative. You just nod, keep a straight face, and act like you know — that’s half the job.”

He leaned in a little. “But the dinners are good. London knows how to feed you when they’re trying to close a deal. Steak, wine, the works. By the end of the night, everyone’s suddenly best friends and promising to ‘circle back’ on Monday. No one ever does.”He looked at his glass, then back at me. “At least they pay on time. That’s worth something, right?”

I laughed. “You’re getting paid for pretending to care.”

“Exactly,” he said, raising his glass. “You fake interest, they fake gratitude, and everyone goes home happy.”

“Sounds like half the relationships I’ve seen at this bar,” I said.

He pointed his glass at me. “And the other half?”

“The ones who stopped pretending,” I said. “They’re usually the ones laughing the loudest.”

I slid his second Negroni across the bar.

“Some people drink to forget,” I said. “And some drink to remember it’s really not that serious. Like you.”

He laughed again — the easy kind that comes from somewhere deep. And in that moment, I realized he wasn’t laughing at himself — he was laughing with the parts of him that had already survived. There’s a quiet strength in that.