They drained the cistern the year the boats came off the boat-hill. Forty columns. Wet stone. Somebody hung lights and put a bar at the deep end.
Fish from the market's awnings follows you down. At the door they strap the night to your wrist. Gray band. Bright when you owe. Dark when you're done.
He came at nine for the cheap hour. Twenty-two. Bright on his second round.
The boy ahead had been refused. Something in his blood the barman would have served anyway. He swore at the door. Went home. In the morning he was alive. Nobody billed for that.
The Tank plays itself. Bass through the columns, up through the old water's stone. Ten years dry. Three centuries ahead. He felt it in his teeth.
She came down from the far hill. Rain in her hair nobody here had paid for. He saw the rain first.
They shared the cheap hour's last round. The shots had weather names. Purchased rain. Shortfall. Long delay. The barman poured the shortfall short. One laugh.
She danced with her eyes shut. He watched. Twice she spoke into his ear. The bass took it. The third time: you.
In the cloakroom crush a wet band slid. They came out laughing, wearing each other's wrists. His was dark now. Hers bright with his debt. The narrow band bit him. He had not looked down.
A girl beside the bar said her cousin had caught the airport bus. Good job. Good shifts. She told them twice. "Nadir," she said, though neither had asked. He had left her his tortoise in a shoebox. The lid lifted against her hand. The barman emptied the tips from a saucer and filled it with water.
"Trade back," the young man said.
"Spend me."
"The city doesn't have a field for that."
"File it under drinks."
He bought the expensive hours with her arm. She wore his lack of money. He kept checking whether she would ask for it back.
Behind the third column, stairs went down to the old water. They took them. Cold stone against her shoulders. Grit under his knees. He asked at her hips. She answered. His owing moved bright on her wrist across his back. Overhead the bass continued. Down here the drip kept time.
They came up hungry. Salted. Serious.
Once a night the room buys a wrist. The free glass pays for the whole night, licensed to keep and show. All week the bought nights play above the bar. The queue never shortens.
It picked his wrist. Hers, on him. Applause. A glass. The reader filed two nights into one: retained; ownership unclear; value certain.
He reached for the glass. She closed her hand around his wrist. He took it with the other hand.
At dawn they returned the bands like borrowed coats. Pale grooves in the skin. The gate read them separately. Got everything wrong in a way that balanced. Outside, the market laid wet fish on dry ice. They had the morning. It was not for sale yet.
The next week their night ran above the bar. The old stairs. Her shoulders taking the cold again. His mouth at her throat. The camera loved them. Could not name them.
Strangers pointed. You, you.
Under her coat his thumb found her waistband. She caught it there. Neither looked away from the wall.
Later they stood in the queue. The bass started through the stone. On the wall somebody's night began again.
They paid to get in.