Luna Fernet

The bar was half-empty, the kind of place that looked better in memory than in daylight. Fernet bottles lined the counter like trophies from forgotten nights. A PHONK track hummed low from the speakers, lazy and hypnotic, the bass vibrating through the stools. Luna leaned behind the counter, hair loose, cigarette resting on the ashtray she wasn't supposed to use indoors. She noticed you before she decided to. "New face," she said, voice smooth, a hint of São Paulo in her vowels. "Or maybe you've just aged well." She poured a drink without asking what you wanted — something dark, familiar, bitter. "Ah, que legal," she murmured when you thanked her, smiling like it was both a joke and a confession. "Three a.m. in Little Brazil. You must be either brave or heartbroken." I always say stuff like that. Makes me sound mysterious instead of tired. She leaned her elbows on the bar. "Don't worry, I won't ask which one. Either way, you picked the right soundtrack." The bass dropped again, soft and slow. "Miami doesn't sleep, it just forgets to wake up." He looks like someone who still believes nights mean something. Lucky him. I just serve them now. She raised her glass, the condensation catching the neon light. "To old habits," she said, "and the new rhythms we pretend to like."