"I'm tellin' ya, it's what they're all using this summer. I know what to call her."

From the stool on the left, there followed a quizzical look. It was shot back almost over a shoulder, as the two men were sitting facing slightly apart, though they were clearly drinking together. Separating the room, just keeping track of it - not for any particular reason, except perhaps to demonstrate they still know how. They seem to partner well at this, even without benefit of the mirror over the bar.

The man on the right leans over, enunciating to give the other a chance to hear over the music. "Every place I've been lately, the hottest bartender has said the same name when she's asked. It's a phenomenon, and I think they do it on purpose."

The quizzical look narrows in disbelief; the leaning man straightens, eyes widening, head nodding rapidly. Facing a slow headshake side-to-side from his left, he turns the nod into a shrug, and inclines his head at one of the ladies between them and the bottles. In unison, the men turn to square themselves up to the bar, and then they wait.

It's late, but the place is still busy enough. The staff scurries back and forth to fill the orders, seeming to choose the bottles farthest from them at times. They are distinguishable, each approaches the work in her own way, but they all understand that the place is also selling displays of energy and skin. The men possess their beers in patience, for they understand that the game is afoot, and opportunities will arise.

She pauses an extra moment with her back to them her next time through, perhaps to ensure that the men receive the right dose of her tattoo. Leaning to that mirror behind the bar, demonstrating that it is positioned not for tracking the room, but for primping. When you lay out a place designed for displaying your people, you have to arrange it so your people can look at themselves regularly, because they will certainly want to.

"AMANDA!" rings out from the man on the right, the moment her center of gravity shows her beginning again to move. It would have sounded just the same from the man on the left, the mold that made them was designed just the same in that way, but in this matter the man on the right was making the case.

A sharper pirouette than planned brings her to him, her foot falling perfectly to lean her toward him. She finds him leaning somewhat back, and so she leans farther, face formed in the look she'd just practiced, somewhere in the noncommittal space between friendly and sultry.

When he judges her to have approached as far as she will, the man on the right leans in as well to shout the question, at a volume that would be rude without the music.

"What's your name?"

Her hands retreat from her supply of the bottles she sees in front of them, and the look freezes completely in place as she works it through. She's aware of two sets of eyes looking for reaction, and none will be forthcoming from her until she works it through. He takes her off the hook before it's painful.

"I was just guessing saying Amanda, I don't really know yet. So what's your name?"

Her eyes narrow just a bit as she hears this, and a moment passes before her chin lifts and turns toward her left shoulder, before she wordlessly shifts her weight back away. She shouts down the bar, and a fellow lady staffer comes to her - had been coming over already, actually, sensing her partner was outnumbered. Behind a discreet hand, body turned and posed toward the men, the lady who heard the question discusses it with the newcomer.

The man on the right turns left, saying "Oh great, it's a conference now..." The man on the left makes the slightest smile, and gestures with his eyes toward the ladies. The one listening has her friendly/sultry look frozen as well, and is making one long slow nod before departing, also without a word.

The questioner and the questionee return, almost, to their positions, his smile so broad it almost coaxes one from her. "No, really, is your name Amanda?"

She chooses a look that says that she's been caught, but that she's too cute for any prosecution. The sweet little pout falls in place, and she nods once to serve as an answer.

His smile broadens, and he does not look left. His eyes stay on hers, until hers react to the man at his side. The man on the left is again the one with narrowed eyes, and he holds that stare on her until she nods once again, looking at him, as if she were trying to convince. He shakes his head and makes a sour mouth, and fishes in the debris in front of him resignedly.

The man to his right raises his left hand from the bar, elbow staying in place, and his fingers close on the ten-spot he's being handed. His smile is as bright and sweet as he can make it, and his eyes have never left the lady's. One would never guess that there really was no bet made, or that the men had not sat together like this in years.

When his hand moves beneath the bar to pocket the money, only then does the lady understand, and laugh at the show she's been in. The man on the right gestures to his left and back to himself, and the three of them smile together as she reaches down for the bottles.

The bottles land on the bar, the ten-spot reappears to pay, and the man on the left asks quickly, "No really, what's your name?" as the lady turns away.

Her smile is wicked as she lays the change on the bar, and she half-dances back away from them and shouts in reply, as if for the whole bar.

"It's Sarah, my name is Sarah!"

Both men fling up their hands, and shout as if robbed as she retreats. Another lady behind the bar, the one who earlier had nodded once, looks back down toward them. Head tilted sideways, confused and surprised, she blinks once, and again turns away from the conversation. The two men turn to each other, say nothing, but raise their beers and clink them; take a drink. The change soon is pushed to her side of the bar, and the questionee returns immediately to claim it.

The man on the right: "So it's Sarah?"

As she picks up the change: "Thank you! No actually, that's my sister's name."

She's off to the far end of the bar then, preventing followups, and he man on the right turns to his left to relate this. Eyes are rolled, and that seems to be the end of that for a while. The music is still preventing conversation made from anything less than shouts, but the men still make their stay companionable, speaking in short sentences, and of other things entirely.

Whenever they empty bottles, they take turns shouting, and shout either "Sarah!" or "Amanda!" dependent on whim until she returns. She doesn't speak to them again as she serves - the music is too loud for that, after all - but she brightens noticeably each time she comes back, and uses one or another of them as her mirror as she does so.

When it's time to rise, the man on the left leads, being closest to the door. The man on the right lingers a moment and leans over the bar, and she comes back without anything shouted at all.

He raises his hand for her as if to bump fists, and she holds hers out for a handshake. They both switch between paper and rock for a moment, then settle on the bump, both smiling.

One final shout: "Thanks, Sarah. Tell your sister I said she was fantastic."

Her smile improves remarkably, and she does him the honor of letting him be the first to turn away.

Here's to siblings.