“Okay,” she said, beaming as she jogged back to the kitchen entrance to slap open the swinging door. “Hey, Liam! I quit!” Then she vaulted herself onto the bar, swung her legs around, and hopped off between a couple of stools. “Attagirl,” an elderly gentleman said, raising his pint in salute. We left the place en masse before Liam, whoever he was, could properly register that he had just lost a damn fine bartender.
