Not having made any real plans himself for the holiday--and frankly being a little holiday-ed out--Julius had put himself on the schedule for the evening. It was a good excuse for not having plans, and anyway it was a good show of solidarity for the employees. Anyway, it had been a good night--impressive turnout, decent tips, and one of the better bands had agreed to play that evening--and busy enough that he'd been able to shut off his brain and just play the role of charming restauranteur/bartender for the evening. Not a bad night, but even two hours after midnight, it was still going on, and it was time for a breather. Let the other bartenders earn a few extra tips without his interference for a bit.
He let himself out the back through the quiet kitchen--they'd stopped serving meals around 10 pm and were operating on a skeleton crew churning out a select menu of late night small plates for anyone who was still hungry, or just liked food with their booze--into the alleyway behind In Vino Veritas for a cigarette. He leaned against the brick exterior of the building, fishing around in his jacket pocket for a lighter when his phone buzzed in the back pocket of his pants. If this was the FOH manager asking where he was he was going to throw something. Probably the phone. But he lit up, took a long drag, and decided to look at the message anyway.
Oh.
That was a surprise.
You're about two hours late. You're supposed to say that *at* midnight. Because it's January, genius.
For a moment he wrestled with whether or not it was appropriate to ask how her date had gone. That what a friend would do? Right?
Finally he settled on: How were the tacos? Because that was the only thing he really wanted to know about in detail.