Yellow.

4:33

She was sitting at the bar, watching her Negroni. She could remain in that pose for hours, her presence a silent challenge. Everyone had questions about her that couldn't be asked directly; knowing the inquiries would go unanswered, they resorted to gossiping. After all, bars are temples of gossip.

Everyone whispered something about her. When we whisper, we must carefully control our vocal cords, allowing them to part without vibration, turning our truth into a silent breath that escapes unnoticed. This is our way of transferring our truth and honesty. Motivated by curiosity and perhaps recklessness, I began to expose these whispers.

"Everyone wants to know more about you," I said, and she invited me to continue. "What do you want to know?" she asked. "Your favorite color and song," I responded, as I nearly finished a Negroni she had never requested.

Her eyes never left the glass, and I pretended I needed to serve another customer. Her stillness caused so much noise and disturbance that it was almost uncomfortable to get close to her. She was like an untold story in progress that everyone followed, adding their theories and speculations. I wondered if she enjoyed the aura of mystery she cultivated or if it was a byproduct of her genuine self. I tried polishing the same glass three times, pretending I had a reason to stay busy. Truth is, nothing makes a bartender more nervous than a customer who says absolutely nothing and somehow still runs the whole show. Eventually, I returned with the receipt; we were about to close. The lights were on, the music had stopped, and a group of people were whispering at the end of the bar.

"I am waiting for you," she said, as loud as she could, knowing this would cause a lot of drama. She turned, looked at them for the first time that night, and smiled. As she handed me her water bottle, asking me to make Negronis to-go, she grabbed my hand and pulled me close to whisper,

"It's yellow, both the color and the song."