Christmas Time, by Eric Smith

It was quiet, almost empty in the hotel bar. I ordered a vodka martini with a twist. I couldn’t place the woman beside me at first; then I recalled.

“You’re a barber, right?”

“Yep, what of it?” She looked simultaneously bored and suspicious.

“You cut my hair, maybe three times, a year ago in Andalusia.”

“I did work there. How come you remember me?”

“I thought you were overly friendly, physically and otherwise, like maybe you were working me for tips.”

“Did you complain?”

“No, I liked it.”

“How about now. Would you like more?”

“I’m alone.”

“So am I.”