"Why don't you come up and see me sometime," the bartender said as she slipped a card with her number on it into Holly's hand, "we usually play a set or two on Fridays."
Holly smiled but put the card back on the bar, reaching for the pen to sign her bill and leave a tip. "Thanks," she said in return, and slid the black folder back, "but I'm not, well, I'm taken." She pulled the necklace out from under her shirt, where a gold band hung.
The bartender looked embarrassed, but Holly shook her head gently. "Sorry," she said sheepishly, "it's only been two months, so sometimes after work I forget to put it back on."
"Your wife is a really lucky woman," the bartender replied, "I hope she knows that."
But Holly shook her head and laughed, "I try to tell her, but she thinks I'm the lucky one. And she's probably right."
The bartender smiled softly in return, and Holly gathered up her things to head out into the light evening rain. Outside, she could see the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge twinkling across the bay and she pulled out her phone and dialed the familiar number.
"Hey, baby," she whispered into the voicemail, "I know you're on late tonight, but I just wanted to let you know I'm thinking of you and missing you. And that a hot bartender thinks you should count yourself lucky for landing a babe like me."
She whispered an heartfelt "I love you" and then ended the call, letting herself look for a moment at the picture of Gail, and the title there on the contact card. "Wife."