June

The back door of the bar is propped open with a crate. Inside it is June: a ceiling fan, the windows open, everyone damp. A man in a wet apron points at the ice well with his chin, and you tip the bags into it one at a time. The split one you carry in your arms.

The ice rattles and settles. Beside you a woman fills a glass from the well, holds it against her forehead and shuts her eyes. The voices stop, a table at a time. The only sound is the cooler under the bar, holding one low note.

You know the note.

If you wrote down THAW, meltwater from the split bag is running over your wrist, and you let it.

Thank you, she says, to the glass. Then the voices come back.